


Blood Runs Cold

by crowntheking



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 36
Words: 40,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowntheking/pseuds/crowntheking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa went with Sandor the night the Blackwater burned, but life isn't a fairytale, and it never ends well. When someone is completely torn apart, they might not be the same when they are put back together again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not gonna pretend like I'm happy with myself for writing this. Only, there's been a lot of talk on tumblr about how if Sansa had actually went with Sandor that one time, it couldn't have ended well.

“And how did you come to capture them?”

“We caught them unawares, Your Grace.” The soldier explained. “They were sleeping. We snatched the girl first, but she put up quite a fight. After we restrained her, it did not take long to bring down the dog. He was drunk.”

The Hound and the Stark girl were kneeling below the Iron Throne. They were both badly beaten, but the girl was significantly worse for wear. It looked as if her nose had bled quite a lot, and dried blood was caked down her mouth and chin, and on the front of her dress, which was torn nearly to shreds. Her eyes were blackened and she was nearly unrecognizable. The only thing that assured that it was her was the bright blue peeking out from the swollen lids, and her messy red hair.

The Hound was no less hideous than he always was. His lips were split and his eyebrow too. A large gash dug across his forehead but had long since stopped bleeding. He was hunched over, tensed, and unable to meet King Joffrey’s eyes.

“Explain yourself, dog.” Joffrey commanded. “Explain why you stole away, deserted your duty in protecting you king, for a stupid little northern cunt.”

“I kidnapped her, Your Grace.” The Hound replied after a moment. His voice was more hoarse than normal. “I thought to ransom her to her remaining family, and find a new master with them.”

“What a splendid turncoat you are.” Joffrey glanced over at Sansa Stark. “She isn’t so pretty now, is she? Tell me, was she worth stealing?”

But The Hound said nothing.

“I will decide what to do with you traitors later on.” The King waved his hand dismissively. “I have a new betrothed to attend to. But see that girl gets a maester. Perhaps if her face is prettier the next time I see her, I will award her with the mercy I did not give her father.”

* * *

Half a fortnight later, Joffrey remembered their existence and had them called forth again. It was after sunset, and the throne room was empty but for a few guards and select members of the kingsguard.

Sansa was still terribly bruised, but her face was no longer swollen and she looked almost herself again. Almost. The Hound was still ugly.

Joffrey stepped down from his throne to get a closer look at them. Neither looked him in the eye, or even in his direction. Sansa trembled violently, while The Hound knelt straight-backed and rigid.

“I will deal with the girl first.” Joffrey decided, and she trembled harder. “After all, she has the blood of a traitor, so it’s not to be surprised that she ran off with you, dog.” He glanced over at the man he once trusted. “But you lack the traitor’s blood. That is your own creation, or perhaps you are simply craven.”

Joffrey shrugged. “But you were always the fiercest, and the cruelest. That is how you got your nickname, I know.” He placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “So I will have you choose the Stark girl’s punishment.” He felt The Hound’s muscles tense underneath his hand.

It took several long moments before The Hound responded.

“Slit her throat and be done with it.”

The King sighed in irritation. “That is no fair death for a traitor. I have decided she will not receive the same mercy as her father. She should have seen him as an example, after all. She should pay dearly for her insolence.”

“Chop her damned head off, then.” The Hound rasped. “Stick it nice and neat on a pike and stare at it until it rots.”

“No, dog.” Joffrey snapped. “How stupid are you? I just said that she will not be receiving the same mercy as her father.”

The Hound was silent.

“Perhaps I shall have her nose removed and gifted to my Uncle? He lost his during the battle, you know, after you left and he had to take your place. I’m sure he would be glad for another nose… A _dwarf_ was left to lead my army because you were too craven.”

“Perhaps you should’ve led your own damn army then, like a real King would’ve!”

Joffrey cocked his head and looked all too much like his mother in that moment. “Ser Meryn.” The knight stepped forward. “I’ve noticed the girl trembles quite a lot lately. Perhaps you should hold her still? Careful, now, I’ve been informed she is quite bruised.” A grin spread across Joffrey’s face.

Meryn stepped forward and roughly yanked Sansa to her feet, squeezing roughly at the exposes bruises at her arms and shoulders until she cried out. He let this continue for a few minutes before languidly raising his hand and Ser Meryn ceased.

When Joffrey looked back at The Hound, his eyes were met. He had never seen the dog so angry before. He shook with his rage and for a split second, The King was afraid he would snap the chains at his wrists and surge forward to strangle him. He dismissed the thought immediately. Obviously, his dog was not as strong as he once thought.

“Did that bother you, dog?” Joffrey sat down on the steps in between the two of them, his legs crossed casually in front of himself. “I don’t blame you. Her squealing is quite painful to the ears. Perhaps I shall have her tongue removed? No, no. That would not do. I’m considering giving her to my guards, since you have not yet given a good way for her to die, and they wouldn’t be so pleased with her if she lacked a tongue.”

“The girl is a sweet fool and I don’t want to waste too much thought on her since she’s already dead.” The Hound did not look at her. In fact, he turned his head farther away from her direction. “She loves her songs and fairytales so much, give her a death straight out of one. She loves cakes so much, fill one to the brim with sweetsleep and let her take the long sleep. Unlike the maiden in that song, she will never wake. Or prick her pretty finger with a needle dripping with Manticore Venom.”

“Those are soft deaths, dog, and easy deaths. I want her to be afraid. Can you not understand that?” Joffrey paused. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you _cared_ about her. That would be a second treason on your head. She was still my betrothed when you stole her.”

“You have nothing in common with her. I’m not sure why you would care.” Suddenly, a look of pure delight crossed The King’s face. “I could _give_ you something in common. You’re a half-charred dog. Perhaps I should make her a half-charred wolf!”

The Hound was trembling this time, with his face pointed directly at the ground. His breath came out, strained and shallow. It seemed he was no longer able to speak.

“Yes, that is a start.” Joffrey held out his arm. “Guards, someone bring me a torch.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sandor would never forget the sound of her screams. Never in his life would he forget. They still rang in his ears, loud enough to drive him mad. He could still hear Joffrey laughing and smell her roasting flesh. He would’ve retched if he had anything left in his stomach.

Joffrey was finished once the girl lost consciousness, and had her drug off to the maester and Sandor back to his cell to rot for a while longer.

Sandor did not watch, and was surprised that Joffrey did not make him. His hands were chained, though, so he could not claw at his ears like he so desired.

He could not even retreat back into himself like he had before. He could not drown out her screams, the smells, and the thoughts that were suffocating him.

_I promised to keep her safe, I promised and she put her trust in me. I failed her. Gods, have I failed her in the worst way. Joffrey is just a pretty version of Gregor, that’s all he is. I have to find a way out of this, I must._

But Sandor was chained to a wall in the darkness. The Little Bird could be on the other side of the castle, guarded by fifty men for all he knew. She could also be dead, but he didn’t allow himself to think that.

Someone would have to help him, but he couldn’t help but wonder why anybody would. He was The Hound, and hated throughout the Seven Kingdoms. The Little Bird was not cared about at all by anyone but her family and they were so far away. He wondered what they would do when they heard of her burning. Surely the entire castle could’ve heard her screaming.

The only ones who could help them now were the gods. Sandor would’ve laughed if he wasn’t already sobbing. It had been years since he had even entertained the notion of the gods, but he did now, for it was the only thing he had left.

He offered a prayer to The Stranger for peace in the event of their deaths; The Father so that they could be judged fairly on their actions; The Mother for mercy; The Warrior for the courage that had abandoned him and to give strength to Sansa; The Maiden to protect her innocence and not allow Joffrey to have her violated; The Smith to allow him the chance to work through this difficult time; and The Crone to guide them.

As Sandor’s prayer came to an end, he opened his eyes to see a light shining through the bars of his cell, but he did not see The Crone’s face illuminated, he saw Margaery Tyrell’s.

“Have you come to kill me?” He asked. “Or to poke me some more now that I’ve broken?”

“I was unaware that you had broken, Clegane.” She reached up, wrapping her long fingers around the rusted bar. “Joffrey told me you were not tortured.”

“Is it not torture, then, to be forced to bear witness to my lady being burned?” He tried to steady his voice. “Burned to match me?”

Margaery raised her eyebrows. “So it’s true, he burned her then?” He leaned forward, her little face pressed between the bars. “Is this the first time he’s harmed her?”

“No. He’s harmed her many times. From the moment he first met her, he sought to harm her.” Sandor looked away. “He’s only gotten bolder as time has gone on. First he only meant to tease her sister, and then he had her pet killed, and then her father.” He had no reason not to spill this information to her. What worse could they do to him that had not been done already? They could cut him open and strangle him with this own guts, they could dose him in oil and set him alight, but nothing would be more painful than what he had experienced today. His own physical pain was nothing compared to the mental anguish of knowing what had been done to the Little Bird.

“Then he got the rest of the Kingsguard to beat her. Not me, though, not sure why. He only ordered me once but his fool interrupted before I could even react. He had her stripped then and beaten more. Search her body, you’ll find scars, I assure you.”

“Why did he do these things to her? Do you know?”

Sandor shrugged. “He only liked to hear her scream and cry. It brought him pleasure. If he could’ve licked the tears from her face, he would have.”

Margaery trembled, and suddenly he realized why she was here, questioning him about it.

“You think he’ll do the same to you.” It wasn’t a question.

“He won’t.” She said, her voice firmer than his. “Not the exact same at least. I have family here who would not allow it.”

“Sansa Stark did too, before they killed them all for traitors.” Her eyes snapped to his and she looked terrified. Good, she was not a stupid girl. She knew what this would mean.

“Thank you for telling me these things. If there is any way-”

“How is she?”

The girl paused, staring at him cautiously. “He did not burn her face. From what I understand, he laid the torch to her shoulder and most of her chest. The skin will pull taut upon healing, if she does not infect. She will have difficulty breathing and lifting her left arm.”

“She is strong.” Sandor said, more to himself than Margaery. “She will live.”

“If she does, I will help you. I owe you that debt.” She knelt next to the bars and reached her arm out, stretching just far enough to brush her fingertips against his shoulder. “I will help the both of you. I can keep Joffrey at bay, but only for a time. I have a plan.”

Sandor only nodded, but he noticed that when she departed, she lit a few torches on the way. _Perhaps I will not go mad in the dark now. Now, I can only go mad wondering if one of those was the one that maimed my Little Bird._


	3. Chapter 3

She woke screaming and jerking wildly against her restraints. Her eyes were open and she knew Joffrey was not there, but she could still feel the fire on her skin, setting her nerves alight and burning away her soul.

She screamed and screamed until the maester forced milk of the poppy down her throat and she drowned again in her dreams.

She dreamed of Winterfell, and her older brother Robb. Robb loved her dearly, but he could not focus his attention on one thing for a long time. He often forgot about her if she was not in his immediate sight. Once, she tripped in the Godswood and broke her ankle. Robb was not big or strong enough to carry her then, but he promised to go get help and return.

She waited in the Godswood until night fell and her father came looking for her. He found her, covered in snow and chilled blue. As soon as Robb laid his eyes on her, he cried and begged her forgiveness, and she granted it to him without a second thought.

But in her dream, Robb had forgotten about her the same way, only he forgot that she was left to the Lannisters. She screamed and screamed as Joffrey chased her. She ran towards her brother, who was faced away. Joffrey crashed against her, sending her sprawling to the cold ground. She tried to crawl away but he grabbed her ankle, twisting harshly, and she felt the break just as well as she did so long ago.

She screamed for her brother, reaching out her fingers as if she could touch him from a distance, but when he turned his face was not Robb’s. He had the face of a wolf.

_What sin have I committed to deserve this?_

When she opened her eyes, a face she did not know loomed above her.

“Mercy,” She begged the vision. “Mercy, please. _Mercy._ ”

“A bit of the poppy, maester, please,” She heard the girl say. “But not enough for her to sleep yet. I need to speak with her for a moment.”

She felt the sickly-sweet tonic in her mouth and swallowed instinctively. It was only two slow heartbeats until her head became heavy and felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

“ _Who_ … Who?” She could not finish her sentence. Her tongue felt numb in her mouth.

“I am Margaery Tyrell.” The girl smiled, and Sansa could see it. She looked so much like Ser Loras.

“When… When am I… to be executed?” Sansa asked, and felt herself strangely hoping it would be right that moment. She hoped that Ser Ilyn would come into the room and chop off her head that very instant. Oh, what a mercy that would be. The kindest mercy of all. She had always dreamt of a knight to save her, but now she dreamt that a knight would come and kill her quickly.

_If only they’d done what The Hound had suggested. Slit my throat and be done with it. He knew, oh, he knew…_

“You will not be executed for as long as I live, my lady.” Margaery brushed the filthy, greasy red hair away from Sansa’s face. “I will keep you safe.”

Sansa closed her eyes to those words and willed them out of her memory. “How long… have I been…”

“A little over a fortnight. You have a lot of healing to do. You’re being kept in a cell befitting your station as a lady. I’ve also had your friend moved into the nicest possible cell in the dungeons. It’s the best I could do for him.”

“Friend?”

“The Hound, Sandor Clegane.”

“Is he to be executed?”

“Not currently, no. I try to make Joffrey forget he has him locked away, but it hasn’t been easy.” She paused. “He’s… been scourged a few times, and was forked when he insulted the king. He’s also had his toes wedged.”

Sansa closed her eyes. She pushed away all of her emotions, her memories, her thoughts. She pushed them away and focused on the burning, itching trail across her chest and shoulder.

“Leave me to die, my lady.”

“I cannot do that. I owe Clegane a debt that I mean to pay.” She felt a soft hand touch her own. “He’s asked for me to keep you safe. I mean to do so, but not only for him now. Everyone I’ve spoken to about you says that you are a kind and gentle lady. I think we could’ve been friends, Sansa. Maybe we can be in the future. Maybe one day, our children can play together. Your son can marry my daughter, or my son to your daughter. I would like that so very much, but for that, I must keep you safe.”

Sansa looked up. “I can be safe in The Stranger’s arms.”

“I cannot grant you death, but I can grant you reprieve. You must trust me.”

“Do I have another option?”

Margaery gave her a look of sympathy. “Joffrey means to have you watch next time.”

“ _No._ ” Her voice was firmer than she ever remembered it being. “No. I will trust you, so long as that never comes to pass.”

“It won’t, my lady.” She felt Margaery squeeze her fingers. “Now, sleep, and recover.” A flute of milk of the poppy was held to her lips. She drank, and sunk into warm darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

“Can The Hound walk yet, Your Grace?” Margaery asked her king over their dinner. They were alone in their meal, but the Kingsguard was still with them. Some were standing about, and the rest were guarding the door. Loras was in, near the door, keeping her safe. His presence gave her the last bit of strength she needed.

Margaery didn’t particularly fear Joffrey. He was only a boy, after all, younger than her, and she had her entire family and most of Westeros to defend her… But she knew what Joffrey was capable of, and that alone unnerved her.

“I don’t know, nor do I care. That is a question for the maester. I only commanded that he stay alive, not that he be able to walk.” Joffrey took a huge bite of his food, chewing and swallowing and enjoying it as though he hadn’t witnessed the terrible tortures he had inflicted on all of those people, especially Lady Sansa.

Margaery herself had not witnessed it, yet the thought of it tempted her to push her plate away. The only reason she didn’t was an extra precaution against Joffrey. She must pretend that she did not care. None of it mattered.

“I mean to play a splendid trick, Your Grace.” She said it as if she were confessing to a septon, but did not entirely regret her sin. “My cousins have heard of him. They believe he is such a terror. Some of the younger ones nearly wet themselves at the mere thought of him.”

Joffrey was interested. His eyes were locked on her face and he leaned forward, capturing every word. She had him.

“I thought perhaps I could send him to be a mock-guard for a time. He wouldn’t really be guarding anyone, real guards would be nearby to keep others safe from him, but I think it would scare my cousins quite well to have him trail behind them under the impression that he would be guarding them.”

Joffrey laughed at that. “Excellent, Lady Margaery. Your sense of humor is enough to steal my heart, and you know I cannot deny my lady love what she desires. Take the dog, if it pleases you. But I don’t want to hear him barking, or I’ll have him forked again.”

This wouldn’t be difficult. Clegane was mostly broken and keeping him away from Joffrey would not prove challenging.

So the next day, she went with Loras to the dungeons to retrieve him.

“How is she?” He asked, as he always did.

“She is recovering.” Margaery answered. Loras helped the large man lift himself to his feet, and offered the support of his shoulder, and it surprised her when the man accepted without question or comment. “She spends most of her days sleeping. She gets milk of the poppy regularly. The dead flesh has already been removed, and her skin is finally beginning to heal.”

“Has she spoken?”

“I went to her many nights ago. I spoke more than she did. She offered enough to answer my questions and asked a few of her own.”

“May I know what she asked?”

“She asked when she would be executed.” Margaery paused, choosing her next words carefully. “She asked if you would be executed as well.”

“Did you speak the truth, or tell her pretty lies?”

“I told her that you did not have a set date for execution. I think she understood what I meant.”

“What of her brother, then?” His voice was angry. “Surely, he has heard what is happening to his sister? If he cares for her at all, he’ll march on King’s Landing and destroy this place. He’ll do to Joffrey what was done to his sister… He’ll-“

“He’ll do as all kings do, and he’ll do as he must.” Margaery reached out, putting her hand on his shoulder. “I have spent time with kings before, Sandor. A king is not expected to act like a normal man acts. He is expected to act rationally, to think. A king is not a knight or servant who only obeys commands, a king gives those commands, and a good king considers what he is commanding before he commands it.”

“Robb is young, but I think he knows what he is doing. I know he did not proclaim himself king and the titles were thrust upon him as well as all the duties that came with it. When a man is a king, he is more than a son or a brother; he is a father to a realm and must not choose favorites among his children.”

“And what do you mean to do as queen, then? Turn a blind eye to things like this because something more important might be happening?”

“If you were in my position, what would you have done?”

“I would’ve run Joffrey through a long time ago.”

“And would have been killed for it. You’re growing reckless and impulsive. You must learn to control yourself if you mean to stay safe.”

“Where are we going?” Clegane was noticing for the first time that they were outside. It was pitch dark, for the new moon was upon them.

“I told Joffrey I was assigning you to guard my cousins as a splendid trick.” She grinned. “I do not think he realized that the cousins I was speaking of are in Highgarden.”

He was shocked. “You’re a fool. He’ll kill you.”

“He won’t.” Loras snapped. “I won’t allow it. My _family_ won’t allow it.”

“You think you can protect her just because you _want_ to?” Clegane turned on him. “The Stark girl had a family too, and guards. A few hundred people came with her from Winterfell. They all died or betrayed her in the end... In the end, I was the only one left to keep her safe, and I tried. Gods, I _tried_.”

“You didn’t try _hard enough_.” Loras hissed through his teeth, craning his neck up to face the man known as The Hound. The anger in their eyes was almost equal.

“No. I didn’t.” And much to their surprise, Sandor Clegane backed down. “Send me to Highgarden then. I’ll water your damned flowers, if it please you. But if I hear that she’s died or been hurt further, I’ll crawl over broken shells back to King’s Landing, and I’ll wring her pretty neck and make you watch.”


	5. Chapter 5

Margaery sat with her most days. Some days they did not speak, and some days Margaery asked her simple questions that only required one word answers.

Sansa had to stay awake in her pain now. It hurt to sit up, to move her neck, to breathe… The maester helped her often, and when Margaery was there, she helped her too. She was wary of this girl, though. She had never met her before she was burned. She knew that while she was escaping with The Hound, Margaery was betrothed to Joffrey in her place, and for that alone she pitied her, but not enough to make her unwary.

“Sometimes, I get homesick, and I go to the gardens to remind myself of home. Would you like to visit the gardens with me, my lady, or perhaps the Godswood if you are feeling homesick yourself?”

“No.” A sudden terror overtook her, and her hands trembled so violently that she dropped the book she was holding.

“Lady Sansa,” Margaery said, her voice soft and unthreatening as she laid her hand on her forearm. “What is it that scares you so?”

“Joffrey.”

And a moment later, she got a new visitor for the first time since Margaery. It was Tyrion Lannister, The Imp, in his broken glory.

“Lady Sansa…” He paused. “Lady Margaery, I did not know you sat in with Sansa.”

“I have a weakness for making new friends, my lord.” Margaery offered him a small smile.

“Would you mind if I speak with Lady Sansa privately?”

She looked to Sansa for approval, earning a bit of affection in her heart for doing so. She gave a nod, which was incredibly painful to do, and Margaery stood and left.

“Lady Sansa, I assure you that I wouldn’t have allowed your torture if I wouldn’t have been recovering from my injuries at the time.”

Sansa said nothing.

“And I’m sorry that The Hound kidnapped you.”

She turned her head away. _Let him assume what he will._

“You have been done a terrible injustice, I… Will you not speak, my lady?”

“What good do apologies serve me, my lord? They do not restore my flesh or my soul. I have no use for your pity. It will not sustain me.”

He said nothing to that, only stared at her with his mismatched eyes.

“Does your burn pain you?”

“Terribly.”

“Will it scar?”

“Hideously.”

“I’ve noticed you favor your left arm, can you move it?”

“Not more than a few inches. It cracks the new skin if any more than that.”

“I would have saved you, had I been able.”

Sansa laughed at that, hysterically, and blood quickly spotted through the front of her dress. Tyrion was horrified, she could tell by the look on his face. He called for the maester and left as quickly as he had come.

She was restrained again. When the maester asked what she had done to herself, she simply replied that Tyrion had made a jape that was too funny not to laugh at.

She was given milk of the poppy to calm her sudden madness.

When she awoke, Margaery was there again, hovering over her like a lovely ghost.

“How are you feeling, my lady?”

“Fine.” _A lie._

“Would you sit with me, by the window?” Before she could answer, the other girl tucked her hand gently underneath her shoulders and sat her up as carefully as possible. Then she took her hand and guided her over to the seat near the window. “How is your head?”

Sansa raised her hand to her forehead. “My head is clear enough, thank you.”

“Would you like me to brush your hair?”

A long time ago, Sansa would have been delighted, but now she felt nothing at all. “That would be fine.” Margaery grabbed a soft brush and ran it through her hair ever so gently.

“Your hair is so lovely. It’s so thick, and the color is divine.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“I told you that often I am homesick, and that I visit the gardens to remind myself of home… When you recover more, perhaps we can visit Highgarden together?”

_I will go anywhere as long as Joffrey does not follow._ “That sounds very pleasant.”

“My brother Willas is there. He is very kind. I think you would like him. He is not married, you know, despite being heir to Highgarden. Perhaps he could find a wife in you, and you could find a husband in him. What do you think of marrying my brother?”

_I don’t._ “My burns…”

“Willas would not judge you for that, so long as you did not judge him for his bad leg.”

“I would have to meet him first.”

“Of course, my lady.” Margaery smiled. “He’s very handsome, they say. He has the same coloring as Loras and I, although his eyes are a little darker.  He’s very gallant too, but he also has a shy nature. When you meet him, you must forgive him if he does not speak at you or look at you as much as you’d like. Your beauty will surely intimidate him.”

_What beauty?_ Sansa wanted to cry, but she had no tears left. “He sounds charming.”

“He is, and you are a true lady, Sansa.” _Please, stop…_

“You must ask the maester when he thinks I will be fit for travel. I am eager to meet this Willas.” _I am eager to get away…_

“I’ve asked already, my lady. It won’t be long.”

That night, Sansa dreamt that she left with Margaery to go to Highgarden, but kicked her horse into a full gallop and sped all the way to Winterfell, leaving the other girl behind. But when she got there, she only found a ruin. There was nothing inside of the castle that used to be her home, except for more fire and more pain.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I update a lot because I like to.

Sandor Clegane found himself at Highgarden. He did not know how much time had passed. In the dungeon, he had done nothing but sleep, but now that he was in the daylight again, he found sleep impossible to come by.

A man near his own age limped out to greet him, and called a maester for him immediately. His wounds were only half-healed. His toenails had turned a dark purple, and the hole beneath his chin as well as the one on his chest were threatening infection. The wounds on his back had opened again as well.

But, with proper care from a maester, things began to heal well enough. The Tyrell kept irritating him, though.

“I was told to make a friend of you, Clegane.” Willas announced to him one evening, trying too hard to hide his cheerfulness. “I’m not sure why, but Margaery has asked it of me, and I’m not one to deny her. Although, I know she is now friends with Sansa Stark, and you kidnapped her… did you not?”

“I did.” Sandor shrugged. “But you’ve probably heard of what sort of things she faced at the hands of the king.”

“I have. My sister writes of her often.”

“How is she?”

“Oh, Margaery is fine. She will wed Joffrey soon, and she’s very anxious-”

“Not that one. Sansa.”

“Oh, my apologies.” He paused. His lips thinned and he seemed to be thinking very hard. “Margaery writes that she seems very detached, and that she has small fits of insanity.”

Sandor tried to ignore the tightening in his chest. “Insanity, like what?”

“She wrote that the Imp visited her one afternoon, and that she laughed so hysterically at something he said that the skin of her wound opened again. She frightened everyone at that, but more than anyone she frightened the Imp.  When asked, he reported that he did not say anything even slightly amusing.”

“Perhaps she wasn’t laughing at something he said.”

Willas nodded at that. “What… What is she like? I’ve heard many things, but from what I understand, you knew her.”

“I knew a little of her. We were not friends, but she is kind. She’s a proper lady, and will not lie to you unless you give her reason not to trust you. She is gentle. She speaks softly and always looks her best, even if there is no occasion for it.”

“I’ve heard she is one of the loveliest maidens in The Seven Kingdoms. Is it true?”

“Her face, yes, but you ought to know what burns look like.”

“Was she burned terribly?”

Sandor looked away. “I did not see.”

“I heard you were present.”

“I could not look.”

“Did you not see her afterwards?”

“I have not seen her since.” He looked up, suddenly furious. “Are you a child? Why are you asking me so many questions? You’re not older than I am, but I am almost inclined to call you _boy_.”

“I’ve welcomed you into my home when you were once a prisoner being tortured on a regular basis. I have helped rescue you from the punishment you were receiving for crimes you are guilty of.”

“I committed no crime against the girl. I might’ve taken her when it was not my place to, and that alone would make it kidnapping, but she agreed to go. I asked her, and she agreed. The only crime I’m paying for is not keeping the promises I made…” Sandor hunched over, raising his hands to his face. “Leave me be. Let me rot in my own torment.”

Willas stood, but made no move to go.

“Leave!”

“What did you promise her?”

“Leave, or by the Seven, I will maim your other leg.”

 

As soon as the door closed behind him, Sandor Clegane wept.

* * *

 

He slept now, and he dreamt of her often. The dreams were never pleasant.

He dreamt that it was Gregor who held the torch to her flesh, and that he was forced to watch. He listened to her scream, and saw her eyes plead with him to make it stop. He dreamt that all over her pretty flesh burned away, and her entire body was left a blackened husk.

He dreamt of the time that Joffrey had her stripped in front of the court, but this time when her bodice was torn wide for all to see, her breasts were burned away and you could see her heart beating beneath bloody ribs. He dreamt that Joffrey stepped towards her, plucked it from her chest like he would an apple from a tree, and took a bite.

He dreamt that it was she they held down in front of the Sept of Baelor that day… and it was her head that Ser Ilyn chopped off.

He dreamt he was too late during the riot, and the men pulled her down from her horse and took turns raping her, and no matter how many times he swung his sword at them, he always missed.

But, more than anything, he dreamt that he was the one burning her. He held the torch to her skin and burned her and burned her, and she screamed, and her eyes looked up at him in pure terror. He railed against himself in the dream, trying so hard to pull away, to stop _hurting_ her.

When he woke from those dreams, he’d lean over and retch off the side of his bed.

Sometimes his nightmares left him so desolate inside that he stayed in his chamber all day, and would ignore anyone who knocked on his door. Those days he hated Willas the most. The man was persistently jovial, even in the face of complete misery.

It was one of those days that Willas came to him with news from Margaery.

“Sansa will be joining us here after Margaery’s wedding.” Willas announced, barely restraining his excitement. “There has even been a suggestion of a betrothal between her and me.”

He wanted to strangle him. “Has the girl herself agreed to it?”

“Nothing is certain yet.” He looked anxious. “She wishes to meet me first, that’s all I know. I hope I please her. Do you think I will?”

“I only knew the girl she was before she was burned. Before, you would’ve pleased her greatly. I cannot speak for now.”

Willas gave him a thoughtful look. “Were you different before you were burned?”

“Very much different.”

“How so?”

“I was kind.” Sandor laughed loudly. “Some even thought to call me the _handsome_ brother, once or twice. Not anymore, though. After I was burned, no one wanted to look at me, and when they did it was only to feel sorry for me.” The side of his mouth twitched. “I had no use for it. The girl won’t either. Whoever she is now, she won’t have you feeling sorry for her, so don’t even try it.”


	7. Chapter 7

Before she was burned, Sansa dressed modestly but not overtly so. As she aged and neared womanhood, she was excited by the changes her body went through. She was excited to grow up, but King’s Landing made her forget that.

She liked to think that, under normal circumstances, her flowering would not have been the way it was. Had things been normal and she had been at Winterfell, her mother would’ve come to her and they would’ve spoken at length about what it meant. Then she would’ve received a hug from her parents and father would’ve kissed the top of her head, and she might have even gotten a small gift that day.

Her fingers reached up to brush across her forehead as she thought about it. She would give anything for her father to be there, to kiss her forehead like he had a thousand times before.

She had to dress even more modestly now. The burns she had stretched across almost her entire chest under her neck, and curled over her left shoulder a bit. She was forced to abandon the fantasies of wearing a lovely, low-cut gown when she reached the peak of her womanhood, and all the compliments she would’ve received on her loveliness had she worn it.

Now, a dress like that would not grant her the stares she had longed for. Before, she had only wanted others to notice that she was a woman too. She wanted it to be as obvious to them as it was to her. Now she only had burns.

Her body was ugly, and she was ashamed.

The skin had healed quite well so far. The maester knew how to do his job well. The skin had tightened painfully over her chest and shoulder. He often had her do stretching exercises with her arm, and breathing exercises too. They were slow and gentle. He only wanted the new flesh to stretch a bit, not tear it, he had explained to her. Still, it was painful work and often left her too tired to continue her day.

She wished she had a dress that would cover the burn, but she didn’t. She didn’t have the resources to have one made or to make one herself, either. She was locked in her room all day, after all, but it wasn’t like she wanted to leave. She covered herself with a large shawl instead.

She was sitting near the window, a book in her lap that she had not read a word of, when someone knocked on the door. She assumed it was Margaery, and called for them to come in.

“Lady Sansa,” Petyr Baelish greeted her. “It’s nice to see you well… You are well, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am, I thank you for your concern.” She turned her head back towards the window.

“I’ve heard you no longer seek solace in the gods, and you no longer visit the Godswood.” He commented, almost offhandedly.

“I have no desire to leave my chamber, not do I have permission to. I am a prisoner, Lord Baelish, has no one told you?”

His mouth turned up in a queer smile. “I have been informed, and so reminded by you now. I’m sure you could seek permission to pray there from Lady Margaery. From what I understand, you two are friends.”

“She visits me and sometimes we speak.”

“Only sometimes?”

Sansa nodded her head very slowly.

“Ser Dontos will be disappointed. He is also a friend of yours.”

Sansa’s heart beat a little faster. “Ser Dontos is Joffrey’s fool. A lady should not have such friends.”

“He would be so sad to hear you say that.” Littlefinger trailed his fingers along the side of her wardrobe. “Sometimes, he comes to me, and does the things that I tell him to do. Did you know that?”

“I did not, my lord.” Sansa understood.

“Have you given up on your friendship with him so soon?”

_I don’t want to visit Ser Dontos. Margaery has promised to take me away. She’s kept her promise so far. I have not been harmed again. I want to trust her… I want…_ “Ser Dontos is no friend of mine.”

Littlefinger nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that.” There was a brief moment of silence. “I’ve heard you were badly burned… May I see what has been done to you?”

“No.”

He seemed stunned by the brisk response, but quickly recovered. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have asked.”

She was left alone again.

Margaery did not visit her that day. She assumed that she was busy with wedding plans. The wedding was soon, that was all she knew. Margaery did not seem very excited, but she was marrying _Joffrey_ and that was nothing to be happy over.

Margaery did visit her the next day, though, and she only spoke of Sansa’s trip to Highgarden.

“It will be after the wedding. You’ll go with a small company of men I’ve put together, each just as trustworthy as Loras and I. They only want to see you safe, my lady.”

Sansa swallowed, considering her question carefully. “And what of the Hound?”

“Oh, you need not worry for him. He has been in Highgarden himself for quite some time now.” Margaery smiled kindly at her. “Willas is attempting to gain his friendship, but they share very little in common except their age.”

“He left?” The thought struck her hard. _He left without me… He left at the first chance he was given, even if it meant leaving me behind…_

“Yes, he’s at Highgarden now.” Margaery repeated herself. “He’ll be there to greet you when you arrive, if that would please you.”

“Did he say anything? Has- Has he written?”

“He has not written, my lady, but before he left he threatened me with the pain of death if I didn’t see to your safety.”

A bitter smile crossed Sansa’s face. _He promised to keep me safe. He promised to kill anyone who hurt me, but I was hurt more terribly than ever. Joff is still alive, and he’s fled to Highgarden. He leaves it up to Margaery to keep me safe. Does he trust her so, or did he only want to escape?_

“Is Willas doing well?” Sansa asked in an attempt to push her thoughts away, and Margaery launched herself into a story about how kind and gentle her brother was.


	8. Chapter 8

It was easy to say her vows to Joffrey. It was not as if she did not intend to keep them. She would love him as long as he was alive. She would act his lady love, his blushing maiden bride, for the rest of the night.

And so she did.

She was not proud to be made a Lannister. Joffrey was as cruel as they came, and Cersei excused his actions. She had not once spoken of Sansa Stark and what had been done to her. She must’ve known, but chose to ignore it. She bore no love for the last remaining Stark, this was obvious, and Margaery had an awful feeling that she felt the same about her.

The Red Wedding had passed, and with it, the rest of the Starks. Sansa was the only one who remained. Margaery could not bring herself to tell her. Sansa was of a fragile state of mind since her torture. She would find out soon enough, but Margaery could not bring that news to her.

Margaery knew the moment that her grandmother had slipped the poison into the cup, for she was not to take another sip. She would raise the chalice to her lips, but not open them. She would swallow her own saliva, and hand the cup to Joff.

Everything went better than planned.

The Imp had caught Joffrey’s attention rather foolishly, and was subject to humiliation for the majority of the night. He was made to be Joff’s cup-bearer, even. And when Joff began to cough and choke, the Imp even held up the chalice and poured out its contents.

Margaery played her part.

She knelt by Joffrey as he died in his mother’s arms, weeping until she could scarce catch her breath, and then ran from the throne room in tears. Loras met her outside.

“Quickly, Loras, retrieve Sansa and send her down the Roseroad. She must be lost in the chaos, she must.”

He returned a few minutes later, Sansa at his back. They stood in the shadows for a moment, cloaked by darkness and pandemonium.

“Lady Sansa, you must tell Willas hello for me.” Margaery leaned forward, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and whispered in her ear. “Joffrey is dead.”

A look of pure shock crossed Sansa’s face, and Loras escorted her to the party that awaited her. Margaery stepped out from the shadows, summoned her tears, and entered the throne room again.

Cersei was screaming, clutching Joffrey in her arms. Margaery pushed through the crowd of people and knelt before him again. “No, no, my king, no…” She dissolved in tears.

She forced herself to sob uncontrollably until someone touched her shoulder. She looked up to see the face of her brother.

“Come, sister. I will take you to your chambers so you can be alone in your grief.”

 

And as he escorted her away, the bells rang loudly over King’s Landing.

* * *

 

They were outside of King’s Landing, riding away, but she could still hear the bells. She would not forget the first time she heard them, when King Robert died.

She rode with a group of Tyrell men. She did not know their names, nor did she ask. She was only concerned with getting away.

She had her own horse, and they kept a brisk pace. It jolted her sensitive skin but she ignored it. She could not ask them to slow. She would not be caught again. They would have to kill her this time.

She wondered what would’ve happened had they not caught her with Sandor Clegane. Surely, she would’ve been with her mother and brother by now. She would’ve been still been whole.

Or maybe not.

He had been so frustrated with her on the road. He snapped at her more than usual, and after a few days alone with him in the woods, it was more than she could stand.

“I don’t understand why you’re so hateful. It seems like you’re best at hurting people. You don’t even try to be caring. What have I done to you to warrant such cruelty?” She had said.

“You torment me.” He had replied.

“I _torment_ you? I’ve been nothing but kind to you, and gained nothing but scorn in return. I came with you here, I _trusted_ you, and yet you insult me constantly.” She cried then. Tears came so easily to her, at that time.

“Why did you come with me then, if I’ve shown you nothing but scorn?”

“Because you were gentle, you tried to help me. I hoped that meant that you could be better. You could be _good_. But maybe I was wrong.”

He stared at her for a long time then, and watched her cry. Then he reached for the wineskin and didn’t stop drinking until it was all gone. He could barely speak by the time he was done, and fell over asleep on the ground. She had shivered in the cold air, but took the cloak he had given her and wrapped herself in it. She knew his mood would be sour in the morning. She had tried to sleep, but then a hand clamped over her mouth.

They were captured that night.

She fought and they beat her for it. She screamed for Sandor but he did not wake until she was already tied up.

He staggered to his feet and drew his sword, but the drink had slowed him. There were so many of them. It was not long before they had him pinned to the ground and tied him up too. She felt his gaze on her all the way back to King’s Landing, but did not return it. How could she?

But the grief she felt was terrible. He had broken his promise to her, just like everyone else. She thought he could’ve been different. She was _wrong_.

She wept fresh tears in her saddle, leaving King’s Landing for the second time.

The Tyrell men looked back at her in pity, but did not bother her. For that, she was thankful. Perhaps Highgarden would be better. Perhaps Willas would be different.


	9. Chapter 9

It was cold the morning she arrived in Highgarden, but Sandor Clegane found the chill pleasant. He found himself a bit eager to see her, but he did not show it as plainly as Willas did.

The man fretted over his clothing, limping from one side of his chamber to the other and frequently asking Sandor’s opinion.

“Clothes are clothes.” He would reply, and Willas would look with revulsion upon his own choice of clothes: brown breeches and a tunic in a slightly darker brown.

“You dress like a peasant.” Willas scowled. “I cannot look like a peasant when she first sees me. I must look handsome. It’s the least I can do.”

“Any man would look handsome standing next to me.”

“I don’t want to look handsome in comparison. I just want to look handsome. Is that so terrible?”

“I don’t think she’s one to judge on looks anymore. I doubt being handsome will win her love. Joffrey was handsome too.”

So they stood out in the gardens, waiting for her, after Willas took nearly an hour picking out what to wear. Sandor felt hulking and ugly next to him, surrounded by thousands of flowers still covered in the morning dew.

He saw her as soon as she appeared in the distance. Her red hair blazed like fire in the morning light. When she was near enough, a man helped her from her horse. She was careful to keep a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, but he could see the irritated flesh peeking out near her neck. He swallowed hard.

“Lady Sansa, I welcome you to Highgarden.” Willas fidgeted next to him. “Lady Margaery spoke of you in every one of her letters…” His voice trailed off.

Sansa stared past the both of them to the gardens. “The flowers are beautiful.”

“Yes, they are our pride here. Even in the coldest of winters, we manage to keep a few flowers blooming.”

Sansa nodded. “I am tired from my journey. Do I have your leave to find my chambers?”

“Y-Yes, of course, my lady.” He gestured to a nearby servant and she was led away.

* * *

She did not as much as glance in Sandor’s direction.

She was angry with him, he realized later when he could not sleep. She was within her rights. He had failed her horribly. She was burned and maimed because of his failure to protect her.

He had not so much as tasted wine since the night they were captured. He wasn’t allowed it in the dungeons, and spent the majority of his nights locked away suffering from winesickness. He thought he would die, but he didn’t. Eventually it went away. The next time he was offered wine, he refused, because he knew if he started he would not stop until he drowned in it.

He could not make this up to her. This failure was too disastrous. There was nothing that could been done to recover whatever it was they had before, no matter how much he longed for it.

He would try not to be harsh with her again. He did not understand how he could’ve been before. Looking at her face that morning, she was the vision of sorrow, but it only made her more beautiful. He couldn’t have mustered a bad thing to say if he tried. He only wanted to beg her forgiveness.

He thought about doing just that, but decided not to. He could not stand her to hate him, even though he deserved it.

He could only protect her in truth, now. He would stand guard for her, and die for her if need be. He would make his promises with action, not words. _Words are wind…_

He was suddenly filled with a burning hatred for Willas. How dare he attempt to court her now, couldn’t he see what she had been through in the past months? She had been tortured along with losing the rest of her family.

_Little bird…_ No, she wasn’t a little bird anymore. Joffrey had plucked her feathers and roasted her for his dinner. He picked her bones clean and left nothing remaining.

She wasn’t the same person anymore, and neither was he. _Damn Joffrey, I hope he burns in all of the Seven Hells._

* * *

They all deserved to burn for what they had done. The Lannisters, The Freys, The Boltons, Gregor. The world was full of monsters. Sandor Clegane was only a lesser one.

She did not look at him when they broke their fast in the morning, nor any of the times they were in the same room for the next few days.

She did not speak to him. She did not so much as breathe in his direction. It ate him up on the inside. Finally, he saw her in the gardens one afternoon. She stood, still and silent, as though she were waiting for something. He decided to speak to her.

“How are you?” A good enough start.

She started, and turned towards him, looking at him for the first time in so long, and then away again just as quickly. “I am recovering.”

He remembered when he had clutched her chin and demanded she looked at him in another lifetime. He did not do that.

“I am glad to hear it.” He thought on his words. “Do you like it here?”

“It is adequate.” She replied. “Willas is very polite.”

He felt the corner of his mouth twitch at the mention of Willas. “He’s a fool for romance and you are a pretty young maiden.”

“Margaery wishes to see he and I married.”

“I know.”

They stood in silence for a long time.

“I heard what Joffrey did to you.” Sansa said, looking up at him again. She could probably see the newly formed scar underneath his chin.

“I’ve had worse.”

“I’m not glad he’s dead.” Sansa confessed. “But… I’m relieved that I no longer have to worry about him.”

“He deserves every ounce of your hatred. I hope he’s burning for what he did to you.”

Sansa shook her head. “I can’t- I can’t wish that on anyone. Not even Joffrey.”

So she was still a little bird after all. He could only imagine her little heart fluttering in her chest. A good scare would probably kill her or send her flying away again.

He knew in that moment, though, that she was kinder than he could ever hope to be.

“Little bird,” He rasped, and she looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”

She looked away.


	10. Chapter 10

Margaery was right about Willas.

He visited Sansa every day, and took at least one meal with her each day. He would offer to walk through the gardens with her, or to show her the animals he so loved. He pressed flowers for her and stuck them to strips of parchment so she could mark her place in the books she read. He would suggest books of poetry to her. He would offer his hand when she was walking down the stairs.

He was a perfect gentleman, but was often shy, even frightened around her. Sometimes he would stumble over his words, or try to compliment her, and his ears would burn redder than her hair.

He was friends with Sandor as well, at least from what Willas had told her. She had never met two men more different. Sandor was tall and broad where Willas was of an average height and a leaner build. Sandor’s hair was black as tar where Willas’s hair was a pleasant shade of golden brown. Sandor’s eyes were light where Willas’s were dark. Willas was handsome where Sandor was not.

But it was Willas who spoke to her each day when she was at Highgarden. It was Willas who tried to comfort her, and did not need to be told that she needed it. Sandor did not speak to her since he tried to apologize in the garden.

Sansa no longer felt warmth inside of her heart for much of anything anymore. Long ago, she would’ve been smitten with Willas, but now it took effort for her to appreciate his kindness.

Underneath her burns, her heart was cold and frostbitten. She thought her breath must be cold when she let it out, like after chewing mint leaves. It was autumn, but she found herself wanting for winter to come faster so she would be surrounded by the same coldness she felt inside.

It wasn’t long until they had their first snow in Highgarden. Willas was worried, because autumn snows only came to Highgarden when it was only weeks away from winter. He spent his entire day sending out ravens.

That night she had a small fit of madness. She stripped down into her shift, went outside, and buried herself in a heap of snow. The coldness pricked her skin like a thousand tiny needles, but it felt so wonderful on her burns that she could not pull herself away.

The snow melted around her, soaking her to the bone and chilling her further, but she stayed where she was. She pretended she was in Winterfell, playing the hiding game with her siblings. She often hid in piles of snow, but her hair often gave her away.

She imagined it was her hair that gave her away that time too.

She was getting tired, so tired, laying there in the snow. She wasn’t sure how long she had been there, but the pain had gone away and was only replaced by how absolutely at ease she felt there in the soft snow.

The next thing she knew, she was being lifted out and wrapped in blankets. Sandor had found her. He did not speak to her; he only carried her inside and set her a few feet away from the fire, just far enough away that neither of them would worry.

He called her maids and left when they pulled her wet shift off of her. They put her in a warm bath and her skin took fire. She screamed and thrashed, pushing at them and lashing out until they had to call a few men to restrain her so they could dry her and pull a sleeping shift onto her body.

It was only once she was tucked into her bed and the screams had died in her throat that Sandor visited her again.

“Why did you do that?” He asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You could’ve killed yourself.”

“Yes, I could’ve.”

He fixed her with an intense stare. “Willas is worried for you.” _Is he?_

“That’s nice.”

“Do you even care about what you’re doing?” _Do you?_

“I don’t know.”

“How old are you, girl?”

“Three and ten.”

“Do you think a highborn girl of three and ten goes and lays half-naked in the snow?”

“This one does.”

He laughed abruptly then, enough to startle her.

“Bury yourself in the snow every bloody day, if it please you.” He told her once he caught his breath. “But know this; I’ll pull you out each time. You may have Winterfell in your blood, but you can freeze to death same as the rest of us.”

She felt a keen rage build in her chest but quickly evaporate. “You’ve already let me burn, why not let me freeze?”

A stricken look crossed his face. “I can never make amends for that. I know.”

_You’re not even trying._ She couldn’t stand to look at him anymore, so she turned over in her bed and closed her eyes. She did not hear him when he left, but she knew when he was gone.

The following morning she broke her fast with Willas. He smiled at her and told her how lovely she looked. He inquired as to how she felt. He asked her what her favorite foods were in the mornings, so he could make sure the cook would make them for her.

He spoke at length about the gardens, his horses, and his hawks. He spoke about the weather and how it worried him, but how he was sure it would all be fine, and that when winter came it would be short and mild. His optimism vexed her.

But when they walked through the gardens that afternoon, he neatly picked a few of the loveliest smelling flowers. He weaved them into a crown, claiming his sister taught him how.

“I may not have won a tourney, but you are my Queen of Love and Beauty.” He placed the circlet on her head and leaned forward to plant a chaste kiss on her lips. She let him.


	11. Chapter 11

The weather only improved slightly at Highgarden. After the snow, it stayed cold, but only rained for a long time afterward. Willas had told Sandor how pleasing this was. Even if winter was approaching, a drought was not happening.

But something about the weather made it harder for him to walk. Instead of prancing about the gardens like he usually did, he spent most of his time in his solar, pouring over texts and sipping mulled wine. Every now and then he’d reach down and knead the flesh above his knee, but he never complained.

He spoke of Sansa often. He could not seem to stop talking about how lovely she was, and how he felt she was growing lovelier each day. He praised her strength and courage. He thought she must be a great thinker because she spoke so little.

_Willas Tyrell is nothing but a lovesick fool._

Sandor kept an eye on her after the incident in the snow. She spent most of her time with a hawk that Willas had gifted her, along with the promise that he would teach her to train it after the rains stopped.

She would sit with the animal for hours. She did not touch it or even stare at it; she only sat with it, as if she enjoyed the company. Sometimes she allowed it to sit on her arm.

“Have you named it yet?” Sandor asked her one afternoon. She looked up at him as if she had not noticed he was there. He did not hide himself in the shadows like he once did.

“No. I don’t know whether it is male or female.”

“I don’t think it would mind what name you gave it.” He walked over, crouching by the cages and looking at the other birds. They were kept in the same room as the ravens, but in different cages. Sandor could only imagine the violence the two birds would inflict on each other should they be caged together. Birds never were kind to each other. “I’ve never heard a beast complain about the name given to him before.”

“I have not even thought on a name.”

“That’s a pity.” He turned back to her, looking at the bird resting on her arm. She wore a leather glove to protect her flesh, but the glove did not fit her properly. It was too large, and enveloped her arm over her elbow. “I expect it will live out its days being referred to as ‘Sansa’s Hawk,’ then?”

It was a small attempt at a jape, but she did not as much as blink at it. Sandor remembered something commonly known about the Starks: They had no sense of humor.

“I suppose it will.”

They were silent for a while. The rain beat down on the roof and wind rattled the window behind where Sansa was sitting. He wondered if the latch was properly done. He reached over and ran a finger over the hawk’s head. The feathers were smooth and cool to the touch. The hawk was wearing a head device that blinded it, so that it would not panic and try to fly away.

“It’s a handsome bird. It was very generous of Willas to give it to me.”

“He seems to think it is the best that he’s bred so far.” Sandor shrugged. “I know don’t know much of birds or training them, so I couldn’t say.”

“I don’t think I would be good for hawking.” She was so quiet he could scarce hear her over the rain outside.

“What makes you think that?”

There was a long pause. “It’s difficult to… My arm…”

_Willas is a fool._

“I’m sure you could use the other, if you’d like.” Sandor offered. “Or perhaps there is a special way you can train him.” He thought for a moment. “The Imp had special saddles made so he could ride horses like a normal man. I’m sure there is some way to train a hawk without…” He let his voice trail off.

She nodded at him in understanding.

“How are your burns?” He had to ask, but she seemed surprised that he did.

“They pain me often. It feels as though my skin has become a set of clothes I have grown out of.”

He sighed, relieved by her honesty. “You should visit the maester when they bother you.”

“They always bother me. Will it stay like this for the rest of my life?”

He instinctively brought his hand to his face, his own wound. “I’ve had mine for a little over twenty years. It still pains me sometimes, although less often.”

She clutched the arm of the chair firmly with her good arm and pushed herself into standing. He stood to help her but she waved him away. She replaced her hawk in his cage and took off the leather glove, placing it back on the rack. She turned to face him.

“Don’t leave.” She said before pulling the shawl from her shoulders. He tensed, and then looked away.

“No, look.” Her voice grew firmer. “ _Look_. I looked upon your pain and now you will look upon mine.”

It was worse than he thought when he forced himself to look. When he had stared at her before, in King’s Landing, he always thought how soft her skin looked. Her collarbone would peek slightly under her flesh near her neck, but it was not severe, and otherwise the exposed skin of her chest was smooth and perfect. Not anymore.

The skin was stretched tight over her body. Her collarbone poked out as if it were a dagger buried under her skin. The flesh was red and irritated, and had a rough and leathery look to it. Some areas were cracked and peeling.

His wound was old, and only a scar now, but hers was new and still healing. He remembered clearly how it felt when his own had only just begun to heal.

“There’s a pretty for you. Take a good long stare. You know you want to.” She said after a few moments.

It felt as though she had punched him in the stomach. “Don’t say that.”

“And you always encouraged me to speak freely. I thought you hated my peeping.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Why did you do the same to me, the night at the tourney?”

“Because you were- You acted as if I were not there.”

“I could say you’ve treated me the same. This is the most we’ve spoken since The Battle of Blackwater.”

He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to focus on her face instead of her burns. “What would you have me do?”

She picked up the shawl, wrapped it around her shoulders, and strode past him. She slammed the door behind her as she left.

_I am a fool._


	12. Chapter 12

Sansa awoke when the sun was barely peeking above the horizon. From outside, she heard the sound of loud clanging and painful grunts. She rose carefully from her bed and peeked out the window.

Sandor Clegane was across the gardens, destroying a longsword against the thick trunk of an old tree.

She quickly pulled a dress over her head and slipped silently outside. The grass muffled her footsteps so he must not have heard her approach.

“You’re upset.” She said. He whipped around, longsword still poised for another strike against the trunk of the tree, before dropping it.

“Yes.” He turned around and sat at the base of the tree with his legs extended out in front of him.

“May I ask what has upset you?” She had never seen him in this state before. Something about it was refreshing.

“Willas received an interesting letter in the night. He lost a friend of his, Oberyn Martell.” Sandor gave a short, rasping laugh. “The night you left King’s Landing, they arrested the Imp for killing Joff. The Imp never had many friends in court, but somehow he made a friend of the Martell, and demanded trial by battle. Cersei is no fool. My brother was there to fight him.”

“And he lost?”

“No, Gregor tore the man apart, but that damned fool ran him through with a poisoned spear first. If it wasn’t for the poison, he would’ve lived. Gregor was rarely injured, but when he was he healed like a man blessed by the Seven.” Sandor spat on the ground. “He’s dead now, though. Died screaming, they say.”

“And you’re upset.”

“I am.”

“Why? He’s dead, like you wanted.”

“I didn’t want him dead, little bird.” He growled. “ _I_ wanted to be the one to kill him. I wanted to look into his eyes as I drove my sword through his chest. I wanted him to be humiliated that a hound bested a mountain.”

“Oberyn Martell was Elia Martell’s brother.” Sansa stated. “From what I understand, Gregor killed her children and raped her before taking her life too.”

“That he did.” He lowered his head. “I don’t blame the fool for killing him, I’m only angry that I couldn’t do it.”

They were silent as the sun finally broke completely over the horizon. Birds chirped softly around the gardens. It truly was a peaceful place.

“I guess we’re both the last of our kind now.” He chuckled softly. “The last dog and the last wolf.”

“So I’m the last, then?” Sansa asked, trying not to breathe too hard. “My brother, Robb? Mother, Arya?”

Sandor’s head shot up. “No one’s told you?” She shook her head.

“Your mother and brother died at The Twins, from what I know. The Freys, The Lannisters, The Boltons all worked together to make a trap for them.”

Sansa closed her eyes, breathing evenly. “And Arya?”

“A little girl who has been lost to the world for a long time. I’d be surprised if she still lived. The Seven Kingdoms are torn by war, and you know your own house words, girl.” He looked at her strangely. “I’ve just told you that your whole family is dead, and you’ve got no tears? You’re alone now, girl.”

“I’ve been alone for a long time, Sandor.” She sat down in front of him, not caring if she stained her dress on the grass. She pulled off her shoes and let her feet run over the slightly damp ground. _It is no Winterfell, but Highgarden could be my home, if I chose it._

“You shouldn’t call me that.”

“That is what Willas calls you.”

“Willas is a fool. He likes to believe the best of people. You know better. Call me dog, Call me Hound, but don’t call me Sandor.”

“You’ve changed.”

“Have I?”  He growled.

“You have. It’s been a long time since you’ve insulted me. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” He said nothing. “You’re not the same man who received that name, especially now that Gregor is gone. I won’t call you that.” Again, he was silent.

“I’ve known my family was dead for a while now, but no one had to tell me.”

“How did you know?”

“I’ve been in Highgarden for some time now. No one has come for me.” She looked down at her fingers. “I’d rather believe them dead than to care so little about me.”

“They were dead before you came.”

She nodded. They said no more.

She wished Lady were there. She did not know why, but out of everything she had lost, she missed Lady the most. Losing her direwolf was like losing a part of herself. So many pieces of her soul had been ripped away since King Robert visited Winterfell. She wished he never had. She wished Rhaegar had killed _him_ at the Trident instead.

_Joffrey would’ve never been born, then. No, I forgot, he’s not King Robert’s son._

King Robert had allowed her direwolf to be killed, and that was horrible, but it was Joffrey’s true father, the Kingslayer, who killed Jory and her father’s men, and tried to kill her father.

Sansa reached down and ripped out a handful of grass, scattering it to the wind. She hoped the war did the same to the Lannisters. No one could trust them. She wanted to think Myrcella and Tommen were as sweet and innocent as they seemed, but lion cubs grow up eventually.

“Little bird?”

“Yes?”

“I take back what I said before.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t call me hound, or dog. You can call me anything you’d like, but not that.”

“What changed your mind?”

He laughed a light rasping laugh that held no scorn. “Dogs don’t usually live so close to thirty. Maybe it’s time the Hound died. I’d rather be a man than a dog… or a _Ser_.”


	13. Chapter 13

Sansa had never known what it was like to go without until King’s Landing, when her father was imprisoned and executed. At the time, she was only worried about the wellbeing of her father; it was only when Joffrey started commanding the Kingsguard to beat her that she worried about her own.

Her family had always provided for her at Winterfell. She was a highborn lady, so she never lacked anything she needed, and got most of what she wanted as well. She never knew what it was like to wear clothes that did not fit until King’s Landing. She nearly wore her dresses to rags there, and she would be ogled at often by men around the castle.

They were the only dresses she had to bring to Highgarden, too. While she covered her chest consistently, the skirts began to inch up her legs until her ankles were exposed.

She could not commission new gowns, for she had no coin. Whatever the Starks had left was burned at Winterfell. As much as it shamed her, she had to ask Willas for help. He granted it at once, of course. The Tyrell’s did not lack for gold. But it left her with an uneasy feeling.

When the seamstress came to measure her, she had to strip naked. She wanted to cry when the woman stared at her. When the measurements were finished, she asked if the dresses could be made as modest as possible. The woman must’ve understood, for when she received her dresses later, the collars concealed her healing wounds very well.

Willas complimented her daily, and after that he made sure to address how lovely she looked in her gowns as well. She wished he would stop. He told her how kind and beautiful she was so often that it no longer made her feel anything.

Ever since he kissed her in the garden, he was a little bolder with physical contact. He liked to hold her hand the most. He never did anything to offend her, and never tried to kiss her if she seemed like she did not want it. There was no particular time that she _wanted_ to be kissed either, but she allowed him because it seemed to make him happy, and it was always chaste.

And Sandor- Sandor was reserved. He seemed to enjoy being in solitude, thinking. She knew a particular spot on the gardens he liked to go. A damp and shaded area, dark almost, under a canopy of trees. He would sit or lay in the grass and moss there. She would go sometimes, just to see him. She did not think he realized she was there.

She liked being around him. Something about his presence reminded her of the direwolves from home. He was still a dangerous man, he still trained his sword arm, but she felt he was no danger to her. He was quieter than he had been in the past, but when he spoke he did so sincerely.

His anger was an even more terrible thing to behold now, but it was never pointed at her. He was careful not to rage around her, but he often lost his temper at Willas. Willas would stand and wait patiently until the fury died down, and then say something condescending or silly. Willas did not fear Sandor, she noticed, he was the first man she ever met who didn’t.

Yet, as the months passed in Highgarden, she began to realize that she never truly knew Sandor Clegane at all in King’s Landing, and even then she knew him better than most.

She found herself watching him when he thought he was not being watched.

He was reluctantly compassionate, particularly with animals. He did not grope the servants in the castle or say vulgar things to them when they passed him like many men in the castle did. He kept to himself. He spoke extensively to only Willas, and to her.

He would train outside with his sword or his horse nearly every day. Afterward he would go to his place in the garden and stay for a few hours.

She often would pretend to be walking in the gardens and catch him on his way back to the castle. They would chat about things that mattered most, which were the things that didn’t matter at all. He did not speak to her as Willas did. He did not shower her with compliments or my lady’s. He did not speak of politics or the coming winter.

He asked her how she was feeling. He asked her how she was adjusting to her life in Highgarden, and if she often found herself bored. He asked how she liked hawking with Willas. He asked how Willas treated her, along with everyone else. He asked her what she had embroidered lately, and sometimes would ask if she would show him what she made.

She would ask about his training, and about his horse. She would ask if he missed anything about King’s Landing, and he would always say no. She would ask if he wanted to train a hawk as well, and how his friendship was with Willas. He would always make a face whenever she referred to Willas as his friend. She noticed he held a small bitterness toward the other man, but she could not guess why, nor did she ask.

Whatever she felt for Sandor Clegane in King’s Landing had been burned away with her skin, but she felt something else replacing it. She enjoyed talking to him. She enjoyed watching him, and being around him. He was almost pleasant to her. She wondered if it was because he no longer drank wine. She noticed he was surer in stance than she remembered, and he never smelled sour anymore.

But she noticed something about him that she found peculiar, but good. There was a wildness to Sandor Clegane, a sort of wildness that reminded her of home.


	14. Chapter 14

Sandor had never seen Willas so troubled before. This was the same man who thought cheerily upon the coming winter as if it only meant beautiful snows, who thought of death only as an opportunity for new life, who prayed each day and ignored the disfigurement of himself and his two closest friends as if it never happened.

There was a party of men, Lannister men, at the gates of Highgarden. For a fearful moment, Sandor thought they meant to beat and capture them again, but he was wrong. They only wanted Sansa.

 Willas eased himself into a practiced levelheaded state and allowed them in. He had asked Sandor to stay, claiming it made him feel safer, so he did.

“We come seeking the Lady Sansa, under orders of the Queen.” Their captain announced. “If you would hand her over peacefully, there will be no trouble.”

“My sister sent you? I’m sorry, but I cannot believe that. My sister would’ve sent a raven rather than a party of guards.”

“The Queen _Regent_ ,” The captain was clenching his jaw, Sandor noticed. “Lady Sansa is heir to Winterfell, if you’ve forgotten. The Queen _Regent_ would like to decide what to do with her, wants her in King’s Landing for safe keeping.”

Willas gave him a thoughtful look. “I’m sure Queen Cersei has the best intentions. She always does.” He smiled warmly at them. “But I’m afraid we have a problem. You see, every afternoon, Sansa loves to explore our gardens. She goes alone, and often times she does not return for many hours.” Willas walked over to the window, gesturing to the thousands of rows of trees that marked Highgarden’s plantations and orchards.

“We cannot be expected to wait that long. The Queen has requested that we retrieve her as soon as possible.”

“Of course. Perhaps you should split up and form a search party?” He offered. “The trees are quite neatly arranged. I’d say splitting your group into two or three would suffice to find her quickly.”

In a matter of minutes, the party was split and was riding out to find her.

“What are you plotting?” Sandor asked when they were gone.

“Sansa isn’t in the gardens, as you might’ve already guessed.” Willas folded her arms over his lap. “She’s in her chamber. I have something to ask of you.”

“Ask it.”

“I need you to take her somewhere safe, somewhere that Cersei cannot find her.”

Sandor felt a bitter rage building in his chest. “I’ve tried that before. See where it got her?”

“Sandor, _please_ ,” He was begging him. “I cannot send her away with a large party of guards, she will be noticed. There is no one I trust more with her safety than you.”

“You are a damned fool!”

“They might kill her, you realize that don’t you?” Willas stood. “Or they’ll take her back to King’s Landing and marry her to some Lannister cousin who will get a babe on her and snatch everything she has ever known away.”

“I know that.”

“Then why won’t you do as I ask?”

“I never said I wouldn’t.” Sandor sighed, defeated.

“Then I will ask some servants to prepare some horses and supplies before the men return.” Willas frowned. “If you’d please fetch her from her chambers and bring her to me, so I can explain…”

When he brought Sansa, and all was explained to her, the expression on her face pained him. Willas then embraced her without shame and gently kissed her lips.

“My Lady, you know I only want for your safety and your happiness.” He took her hand, wrapping his fingers around her own. “This is what is best for the moment. I trust Sandor. He will help you. You two must get away first, and then find somewhere to go. Once you are safe, send me a raven. I-I could not bear it if you were harmed.”

“My lord,” Sansa started.

“My lady,” He replied, with a sad smile. “My lady and my love, you must go. You must find your safety and your happiness elsewhere for now. As much as I wanted Highgarden to be a sanctuary for you, it seems that the gods had other plans. It is my fondest hope that you will return to me, when the war is over, if that is your wish.”

He pressed another quick kiss to her lips before letting go of her hands. “You must go before they return.”

She said no more to Willas, and instead turned to Sandor and said “Take me where we need to go.”

And he did. She easily kept pace with his long, fast strides as they made their way out of the castle to the stables. Two horses were already saddled and packed, Stranger being one of them. He helped Sansa unto her horse, as gently and quickly as was possible for him, and climbed on his horse.

“You must tell me if the pace hurts you.” He said to her. “We must go as fast as you are able to stand.”

“I will be fine.” She replied, and so he broke his horse into a full gallop and hers followed.

And they rode hard away from Highgarden, the only safety and peace they had known for a long time, their home for many months, and they rode away. And while Sansa did not look back, not even once, Sandor found himself doing it.

He had never known such peace as he had there. He had lived his life from Clegane Keep, to Casterly Rock, to King’s Landing, and none of them were home to him. Highgarden had started to be. He had everything he could need there; a warm place to sleep, good food to eat, and a yard to train, a companionship with Willas and whatever it was that he had with Sansa Stark.

And he was leaving it all behind. But he wouldn’t let Sansa suffer the same fate that she had last time. He would allow himself to be roasted alive before he let anything happen to her again. He had to keep his promise, not the one to Willas, but the one he made long ago when the sea and sky were set ablaze.

He had failed her once, he would not do so again.


	15. Chapter 15

They rode hard until the sun went down, came up again, and then went back down. Sansa’s horse was not trained for such intense riding as Sandor’s was, and by that time the animal was breathing hard and pitifully, and they had to stop to rest.

Sansa was uneasy stopping where they had to. The Reach was mostly flatlands with rivers running through. She assumed they were heading northeast, because the lands were still flat after so much time travelling. There were no hills making the beginnings of the mountains of the Westerlands or the mountains of Dorne.

They found an area with very tall grass to hide in. She did not know how to build a fire, and Sandor did not want to. He said it would be better not to have one anyway.

“Are you hungry?” He asked while pulling some bits of dried meat and a skin of water out of the packs they had been given.

“No.” She replied.

“Eat anyway.” He shoved some into her hands, along with her own skin of water to drink from.

She filled her stomach with more water than food. She found herself quite thirsty, and the water was crisp and clean. When he seemed satisfied with the amount she had eaten, she lay on her side on the grass, facing him.

“What’s so interesting about watching me, I wonder?” He took a long pull from the skin of water.

“I know we have wine. You have not so much as looked at it.” She said, and his burned cheek twitched almost violently in response.

“I want to keep a clear head.” He replied after a moment. “Not just now, but for the rest of my days. I no longer wish to live in a wine-soaked fog.”

“What changed that?”

“You know bloody well what changed that.” He seemed to want to continue, but swallowed the rest of his words with another bite of food. “Sleep, girl. You need it.”

She turned, gently, on her back. “This grass is almost as soft as a featherbed.”

He only laughed at that, and then laid down himself a good distance away. “No chirping now, little bird. Save it until morning.”

So she relaxed and it took her only moments to find sleep. She did not dream. When she woke, the sun was only just coming up. The sky was still a deep, dark blue and a few stars could still be seen.

Sansa had known palaces and finery, kings and queens, artwork and jewels and beautiful gowns, but none of that could ever compare to the beauty of nature. She supposed it was growing up in Winterfell that made her that way. While she did appreciate man-made beauty well enough, the beauty made by the gods was a different kind, one that no amount of beatings or burnings could take away the splendor of.

She wondered how many hours she could’ve lain there, in the long grass of the Reach, watching the sun come up. It was beautiful in an endlessly painful way. She missed the hawk she had never named, and envied him the ability to fly among the clouds like one could swim in the ocean.

She wished she could erect a house in that very spot, and make the roof out of glass as to never cover the sky. She wished she could live there for the rest of her days, until she was old and withered, and then died and returned into the soil. She wished for it so badly that it hurt.

But she knew that could never happen. She was the last trueborn child of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. She was meant to be a lady, to live in giant castles designed to pierce the sky instead of embrace it. She was meant to marry a lord she felt no passion for, and bear him children who would be the only true loves in her life. She was meant to send her sons away to be wards or squires, and her daughters away to marry and lead similar lives. She was meant to be imprisoned in a life surrounded by a cold loveliness.

She had always wanted these things, but never realized what they meant.

She unbuttoned the collar of her dress and slid her fingers underneath, feeling the scarred flesh hidden there. It was sensitive, yet numb, and tough, yet fragile. She _was_ her scars. She wondered how difficult it would be to dig her fingernails into her skin and pluck her own heart out, if only it would stop the aching she felt there. Those thoughts frightened her.

She looked over at Sandor. He was still asleep, and more peaceful than she’d ever seen him. His eyes lost their anger in Highgarden, but took on such a lost and forlorn quality that she found she still could not quite hold his stare.

The sun had already come up, and she supposed it was a good time to leave. She knelt and crawled over to him, tugging his hair gently to wake him. His hand flew up and grasped her wrist, hard at first, but then gently before he let her go.

He sat up, and without saying anything wondered away from the area where they slept to relieve himself. She stayed, sitting on the ground and feeling the slight chill of the grass on her legs and underneath her fingers. She had slept well, and she was ready to journey again. She was not afraid this time. She did not know what she was anymore.

When he returned, he helped her unto her horse and got on his. Her horse was so small in comparison to Stranger, and he seemed to realize in that moment that she was not given a warhorse to ride as he was.

“We will slow our pace today, but only some.” He said to her as they began. “It would not do well to be caught again. You will let me know if you need for anything, or if you start to get sores. Understand?”

She nodded, and in that moment realized that she had no idea where they were going, and in the next realized that she did not care.


	16. Chapter 16

About a week later, they found themselves surrounded by a series of small, rocky hills. Sansa knew these hills connected to mountains, but did not ask what region.

When they stopped for a short rest and some food, he walked her through setting a fire, while she did the work herself. The fire was small and weak, but they huddled near it all the same. While deep in her thoughts, Sansa chewed on a thick slice of bread and took sips from a wineskin that Sandor never touched.

“What’s that queer look for?” He asked her.

“My name day passed a few days after we left Highgarden, I think.” She admitted. “I was thinking on how my name day used to matter so much.”

“And it doesn’t anymore?”

“It does, but in a different way.” She shrugged. “I am older in years now. That’s important.”

He laughed at that. “You’ve never been your age, little bird. Even when I first saw you in Winterfell, you did not look a little girl. You looked like a young maid. Made every man around you hate himself, most like.” He took a bite of his own food. “You’ve acted older too, since the war started.”

“Why would I make a man hate himself?”

His mouth twisted. “That’s something you might never understand.”

“I want to try.”

“No.” He said firmly, and then he stood and kicked dirt over the fire until it went out. “Let’s keep going.”

“Where are we going?” She asked for the first time.

“We’re near Stony Sept right now, and after we pass it we’ll have to go between Harrenhal and Riverrun. We can’t stop at either.”

“Why are you taking me north? Winterfell has been destroyed.”

“I’m not taking you that far north.” He snorted. “There’s nowhere safe for the both of us to go. Either you’re wanted someplace, or I am. I thought to take you to the northern part of the Neck and keep us in the wilderness for a time, perhaps going to small villages now and again for news. I know it’s not a desirable way to spend your time, but we don’t have much of a choice. After I’m sure we’ll be safe again, I’ll deliver you back to Willas.”

He helped her on to her horse. “Why do you resent Willas so much? Did he say something to you?”

“Willas is a fool.” He grunted as he climbed on his own horse. “Willas says and does foolish things.”

“Like what?”

“You know yourself how irritating he is. He thinks everything is better than it is for true.” He grimaced. “How many _more_ questions are you planning on asking me?”

Sansa felt a blush creeping up her neck. “None.”

They reached Stony Sept by sundown. She didn’t get to see or explore much of the town, but she was not upset about it. They stopped at the first inn they saw and paid for a room and hot food.

They spread out on the bed together that night. He was too tall, and his feet hung over the edge, but it was wide enough to support them both comfortably. He did not touch her, and faced her with his back all through the night. He radiated an almost fevered heat, but that seemed normal for him. She thought that maybe her body was trained to be colder from growing up in Winterfell, or that the Starks truly had ice in their veins like so many loved to say. Still, his heat was comforting because the room they were given in the inn had a terrible draft through the window.

“Up, little bird.” He said to her firmly, rousing her from her dreamless sleep. She wanted to stretch her arms and legs but found that she could not move. The skin of her wound had hardened in the night where it was slick and moist the day before. Her skin felt so incredibly tight and dry that she nearly cried out from the pain. She had to take short, shallow breaths.

“I cannot move.” She managed, looking up at him as he stood over her. The expression in his eyes changed rapidly from impatience, to sympathy, to anguish.

“In a town called Stony Sept, there is bound to be at least one maester.” He shook his head. “Wait here.”

While he was gone, she tried to think of a story to explain what had happened to her. She decided to use the fact that Sandor had visible facial burns to her advantage and include it in her story.

When Sandor arrived with the Maester, he received a cross look and a demand to leave. Sansa had to remove the top half of her clothing with assistance, and reveal her entire wound for the first time in quite a while. It shamed her to her very soul.

The worst of the burns were on the left side. The flames of the torch had curled over her shoulder and under her armpit, where hair no longer grew. The flames had scorched her nearly to her neck, and spread across almost to her other arm. The top of her left breast had been burned as well, causing the skin to tighten and draw it up further than the other. That pained her nearly as much as her arm, because they were not yet done growing and the stretching of her scars was a painful sensation.

The maester gave her a look of pity. “Oh, poor dear, how did this happen to you?”

“The man outside is my goodbrother. I was living with him and my elder sister when their house caught fire. The fire left a mark on him and me, but took my sister’s life.” She told the story with ease, having practiced it in her head while she waited. “He’s the only family I have left, and we’re trying to find someplace to go.”

The maester gave her a strange look, clicked his tongue, and went to work on her wounds. As he rubbed a foul-smelling greasy salve on her skin, realization hit her. This man was a maester, and an old one at that. He had most likely seen plenty of burns in his time. He could probably tell she was lying because her burn was so recent while Sandor’s happened decades ago.

She wanted to groan with humiliation at her own stupidity, but kept quiet instead. When he finished, he gave her a small, glass corked bottle filled with the same salve. It was a cloudy white tinged with yellow-green, and it smelled like some sort of animal fat.

“You must wash it off before you sleep tonight, and apply it again whenever the burn pains you. Do not keep it on your skin for longer than a day.”

She nodded while she pulled her clothes back on, and he exited after taking a few coins from Sandor on his way out.

“Man gave me a queer look.” Sandor grunted at her. “What did you tell him?”

“That you were married to my elder sister, and I lived with the both of you until the house burned down, killing my sister and burning us both.” She rolled her injured shoulder gently, testing the flesh there. “I thought it was a good story.”

“It is,” He admitted. “You just told it to the wrong person. We’ll keep it until a better idea strikes you.” Suddenly he wrinkled his nose, looking over at her strangely.

“It’s- He gave me a medicine.” She held up the bottle to show him. She never blushed so intensely in her life. Sansa Stark had never had the problem of smelling foul until that very moment.

Sandor chuckled darkly. “Fucking _ointments_. You’re almost like me, I’d say. Burned and bitter and not a knight, but a holy man graced you with ointments anyhow.” He shrugged, pulling their valuables back into the pack as he continued. “Perhaps you’ll be knighted for true one day, and be like the Lady Brienne the Beauty, who killed King Renly after he spurned her advances.”

“Why would King Renly spurn a woman called beauty?” She was curious.

“Well, I hear it’s because she’s not a beauty at all. Looks more like a man.” Sandor laughed again, genuine this time, at a joke she did not catch. “Come, little bird. We have much farther to go.”


	17. Chapter 17

They kept travelling, leaving Stony Sept behind, and heading further north and further into danger. The hilly, grassy terrain began to mix a little with sparse forests. A few trees always laid on the horizon.

Sansa desperately craved to be spoken to, but Sandor was quiet and sullen and she did not know why. She went a little ways away to treat her burn when it hurt, and washed it off with water when there was no river to bathe in. She did not think she could’ve embarrassed him somehow with the sight of her wound.

Although once, when he was helping her from her horse, she laid her hands on his bare forearms to steady herself. His muscles jumped so hard he nearly dropped her. Perhaps her hands had been cold.

They were nearing the Red Fork, by the Inn of the Kneeling Man. They were surrounded by a dozen trees and tall red-tipped grass that swayed easily in the breeze.

He sat across from the fire, angled away from her and focusing on sharpening his sword. He hadn’t had to use it yet. She hoped he never would.

He must have been so absorbed in his thoughts because he did not see her stand. When she laid her hand against his back, gently as not to startle him, he flinched anyway and jerked away from her touch.

“Don’t do that.” He rasped.

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t _touch_ me.”

She swallowed hard, trying to fight the heat building behind her eyes. “Why?”

“You never did it before.” He sneered at the ground. “Why start now?”

“I did touch you before. Do you not remember?” She knelt next to him. “When you told me the story of how you were burned, I touched your shoulder, like this,” She reached out her hand and grasped his shoulder softly. “Remember?”

“Yes, and I remember how scared you were of me.” He spoke his words through tightly drawn lips and tilted his face down towards the ground. She realized, suddenly, what he was doing, and what he had been doing all along.

His hair was still combed over the burned side of his face. He was trying to hide his scars, the same way she hid hers, but he could not conceal his with clothing. His scars were on his face. His scars were the first thing anyone saw of him. He was just as ashamed as she was. She knew how he felt.

The tears could not come fast enough, and the pressure behind her eyes was almost painful. She wrapped her arms around his arm, for she could not encircle his shoulders, and wept against him.

“Why in the seven hells are you crying?” He was bewildered.

She sniffed, wiping her tears with the sleeve of her dress. “Because I think I know how you feel.”

“You don’t.” He snapped. “You don’t even know _what_ I feel.” He attempted to pull away, but she held tight, and eventually he gave up. “What are you even talking about?”

“The burns, trying to hide them,” She pressed her face into his arm again. “I’m so ashamed of them. I don’t want anyone to see them.”

“You showed them to me in Highgarden. You made me look.”

“I did the same to you that you did to _me_.” She snapped and tightened her grip on his arm. “It was only fair.”

“That it was.” He sighed. “Your shame and your pain, same as mine… perhaps you do know some of what I feel, but not all. You will never know all that I feel, nor will I know all that you feel.”

“I hate the Lannisters.” She confessed through clenched teeth. “I hate them so much. I don’t know how I can stand it. All they do is lie and hurt others. They killed my family. I want them all gone. I hate them. _I hate them!_ ”

“It’s not easy, is it?”

She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “No. No, it’s not.”

And when they slept, she dreamt of Winterfell. She dreamt of her father and her mother, and all of her siblings, even Jon Snow. She dreamt of a great feast, and she ate many lemon cakes and laughed with Jeyne Poole about something funny a boy had said earlier that day. And Jory would tug her hair when he walked by, and smile at her when she turned to huff at him. Arya would be making a mess or acting silly, but it did not bother her.

In her dream, her Father would smile and hug her. Her mother would run her fingers through her hair and tell her how lovely she was growing up to be. Robb would grin and pinch her cheek, and Jon would give her a reserved smile and shrug. Arya would pinch her side hard, and then laugh about it, and Bran would kiss her cheek sweetly. Rickon would tug on her skirts, and raise his arms for her to hold her.

She was so happy, _so happy_.

When she awoke, she was sobbing. She missed them so much. She sobbed silently for a moment, but when she began to sniffle loudly, Sandor hushed her. She noticed he was crouched in the tall grass near her, his sword drawn. The sound of conversation reached her ears.

“I swear to you, when the townsfolk told us where they were going, they pointed in _this_ direction.” A slightly hoarse female voice said. “They are probably heading to the inn. We can catch them there.”

She heard the crunch of footsteps approaching and wiggled closer to Sandor, too afraid to sit up. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could will them away, and moved a little closer.

“Wait, did you see that?” A deeper voice asked, and suddenly the crunching became faster as well as the beating of her heart. She reached out, gripping Sandor’s ankle as if it could anchor her to safety.

“We don’t need to find them at the inn, it seems.” The man’s voice said. “We’ve found them right here.”

And when she opened her eyes, she was looking up into the face of Jaime Lannister.


	18. Chapter 18

“I told you that the Hound had her.” An unfortunately ugly woman insisted. _This must be that lady knight, Brienne the Beauty, which Sandor mentioned. Poor creature._

“And it seems you were right, despite the fact that the Hound escaped King’s Landing quite some time before she did.” Jaime Lannister tilted his bearded head. “I wonder how that happened.”

He looked so different. He was filthy and bearded and looked almost nothing like he had in Winterfell. When she looked up into his eyes though, all she saw was Joffrey, and the scar on her chest stung with the memory.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you better keep back.” Sandor said.

“Lady Sansa,” The lady knight called, ignoring him. “Oh, you don’t know how long I have been searching for you.”

Sansa swallowed hard, terrified. “What do you want?”

“To see you to safety, my lady.” Brienne answered.

“Leave me alone, then.” Sansa tried to put steel in her voice, but instead she sounded like a frightened child.

“My lady?” Brienne took a step forward and so did Sandor. He planted his feet on the ground solidly and held his sword tight in his grip.

“Stay back, I said.”

“Out of this, Clegane.” Jaime called.

“No, _you_ stay out of this, Kingslayer.” His face twisted in rage. “Don’t think I haven’t heard of your missing hand. You couldn’t stand a chance against me now; you barely could before you lost it.”

The Kingslayer looked annoyed. “I’ve got my golden hand now, Sandor.” He waved it in the air, as if to prove it. “I find it’s steadier than a real one. I’ve been practicing. So hand over Sansa Stark, or you’ll see what I’ve learned.”

“ _Stop it!_ ” Sansa climbed to her feet, willing her knees not to tremble. “What do you want?”

“My lady, I promised your mother I would see you safe before that awful wedding with the Freys,” Brienne looked down, a queer expression passing her face. “I- I have to take you to her now. She wants to see you. She’ll kill my friends if-“

“You’re lying.” Sansa’s voice finally took the cold edge that she felt. “My mother is _dead_.”

“It’s not as you think, my lady.” She held up her hands as if the gesture could help her. “She- There has been sorcery. She’s been- The Red God has sought fit to return life to her. It’s a foul sort of miracle.”

“Do you think I am some stupid child?” Sansa was trying hard not to cry now. What horrid lies! Why would they tell such tales? “A god that does not exist cannot perform a miracle, and certainly in this cruel universe there are no gods, only devils and monsters.” She pointed a finger accusingly at Jaime Lannister. “You are a _monster_. You are a _Lannister_. Do you not realize what you, and your entire family, have done? _You’ve torn my life apart._ I have nothing now, because of you!”

“I’m not my sister. I’m not Joffrey either.”

“Cersei is your twin, and I truly believe that Joffrey is your son.” Sansa closed her eyes, fighting the tears even harder. “Even so, you have done things to hurt my family. You attacked my father and his men, men I grew up with in Winterfell, and killed them. You nearly killed my father. You wanted to, because my mother had taken The Imp. Do not deny it.”

“I have done many things to hurt your family, I do admit it.” He looked sincere. “I admit, when your brother Bran was crippled, it was I who pushed him from that tower. I’ve paid my price for my crimes,” He held up his arm, showing his golden hand. “But now I seek repentance. I seek forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” Sansa was breathless. She thought of her sweet baby brother, Bran, who was broken and crippled after his fall. She cried until she vomited when she laid eyes on his sickly little form. Her baby brother, how could he? Bran was only a child, and he was a grown man! “How can I forgive you for these things? How can you even ask?”

“My lady-“

“No! I will not go with you!” She shouted, her voice was hoarse with emotion. “Please, leave us be. _Please._ ”

“We cannot. You must go with us, but we had hoped you would agree.” Brienne said. She looked ashamed.

“You will not take her against her will.” Sandor wiggled his sword arm. “You’ll have to kill me before you do.”

Brienne stepped forward, the hand on the hilt of her sword, but Jaime stopped her. “No, I will do this.” He said, and she nodded gravely. He locked the fingers of his golden hand around the sword and tested to make sure it held before raising it to Sandor. “I don’t want to kill you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sandor rasped. “You’ll have to if you want the girl.”

“Can’t you be reasoned with?”

“If the girl doesn’t want to go, she doesn’t go.” He shrugged. “You are the one being unreasonable.”

The Kingslayer gave him one last look of hesitation before initiating the first swing of his sword. Steel clashed against steel, scraping and clanging loudly as they fought.

Their fighting technique was similar. Jaime swung his sword first, trying to lay the first blows while Sandor blocked them, and then they switched. Sandor had more strength, but Jaime was quick and would lay small cuts to various parts of his body. Sansa’s heart leapt into her throat.

Neither of them was very well armored. They were both wearing mostly tough leather, and Sandor’s strength cut through that easily as well. Jaime would have to hop back to avoid getting his stomach sliced open.

They were so easily matched that Sansa’s hands shook with her nerves. _Sandor must not lose, he must not. They will kill him and take me away. Oh, no, no…_

Sandor turned his sword and swung hard at Jaime’s shoulder, but he quickly stepped away and swung at Sandor’s back. Sandor turned quickly, barely catching the blade with his arm twisted at an awkward angle. It was only a matter of time before they were both drenched in sweat and panting.

Jaime crouched quickly and swiped at Sandor’s knees, and Sandor stepped away and attempted to knock his sword from his grip, but the golden fingers held too steady. Sandor roared with frustration and swung hard at Jaime’s sword purposefully, the steel clashing together so hard that Sansa could almost feel the vibrations that must’ve been travelling up the Kingslayer’s sword.

He was only stunned for a second, but managed to regain himself fast enough to aim a successful blow to Sandor’s thigh, cutting open the flesh and nearly making Sansa retch. He paused for a long second, and Jaime only stood, breathing heavily and keeping a sharp eye on his opponent.

Sandor swore loudly at the pain and rushed forward, sword swinging wildly, surprising them all.  Wide eyed, Jaime clutched his sword with both hands and tried to defend against the blows, but Sandor grabbed him up with his free hand and lifted him from the ground.

“No! Stop! We’re trying to help you! Stop, _please, stop!_ ”

Brienne the Beauty was wailing as Sandor shoved his sword through the Kingslayer’s chest.


	19. Chapter 19

“Damn you, woman, damn you, woman.” Sandor muttered, clutching his leg. Sansa did not know whether he was referring to Brienne or to her, but she did not care. She ripped off a large portion of her skirt and wrapped it tightly around his thigh.

“You need a maester, Sandor.” Sansa was crying freely now. “Please, you need a maester.”

“That’s true.” He laughed. “I’ve bled all over you.”

“That’s not funny.” Sansa glanced over to Brienne, who was weeping loudly, clutching the Kingslayer to her.

“Jaime,” Her rough palm combed over his beard. He was not yet dead. Sansa felt faint.

“Brienne,” He replied. She almost did not hear him. “Your eyes- Sapphires-” She could not make out the rest over the sound of Brienne’s choked sobs.

When she looked back at Sandor, he had been watching them too. His expression was one that she had not seen before. He raised his hand to her face, running his rough thumb along her jaw. “Little bird, do not weep for me.”

She shoved his hand away. “You shall not die. You will not die, I command it.” She clenched her teeth so hard that it hurt. “You must stand. Get on your horse.” She helped him up, and he was so heavy.

“You’ll have to tie me to my saddle, little bird, or else I’ll fall.” He clumsily swung himself up into the saddle, and she untied the packs from her own horse and used it to tie him steady while he instructed her.

“We’ll go on Stranger, he’s faster. I’ll leave my horse here, and climb on in front of you to lead the way.” Sansa’s hands were trembling so violently she could barely finish the knots.

“Where do we go?” Sandor asked, and Sansa found that she did not know. Desperately, she turned to Brienne for help. The woman was still clutching the Kingslayer’s corpse, only she was quiet with her mourning now.

“He was only trying to help, my lady.” Her lips trembled. “We were only trying to help.”

“Help me now, please.” Sansa begged, clutching the woman’s blood covered hands with her own. “Help me now and I’ll go wherever you want. Please, please, he cannot die. He is all I have. He cannot die. Where do I take him? Where?”

Brienne stilled for a second, deep in thought. “You could take him to the Quiet Isle. There’s a man there who-”

“Where is that?” Sansa demanded, and when Brienne only stared up at her stupidly, she grabbed her shoulder, digging her nails in. “ _Where_ is this place?”

“Saltpans.”

Sansa rushed over to Stranger, scrambling on and kicking him into a full gallop. Sandor jolted and growled with his pain, but said nothing. He slumped forward a bit, pressing against her back.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Saltpans.”

“Little bird, I’ll bleed out before we get there.”

“You won’t.” Tears blurred her vision. “I’ll make sure you don’t. We won’t stop for anything. I’ll ride Stranger to death if I have to.”

He said nothing to this, only slumped further towards her back.

Stranger was the fastest horse she had ever ridden. He ran so smoothly, it gave her hope. She rode him as hard as she could, kicking furiously when he slowed, but he never reared or kicked. He seemed to sense his master was in danger.

They rode for hours and hours. It was the most grueling riding experience she’d ever had. She was sure she had sores, but she did not care. The sky darkened and they rode on still, until they reached the Saltpans.

She could see it across the Trident, and it was all aflame. She gasped in horror. “No, no.”

Suddenly, Sandor reached forward and turned Stranger, kicking him into a gallop.

“Too dangerous.” He panted. “We can’t stay.”

They rode some ways down the banks of the Trident before he clutched at her waist hard.

“Little bird, I need to rest.” He sighed heavily into her hair.

She wiped the tears away from her face and managed to get down the saddle on her own, and helped him down as well. She ignored the searing pain of the new flesh of her shoulder ripping open.

He slumped down into the grass on his back, breathing hard. “I need your help, little bird.”

“Anything.” She said, and meant it.

“Start a fire, boil some wine, quickly.”

She managed to find a good amount of sticks and dry leaves for a fire, and soon it was roaring. With trembling hands, she filled a tin cup with wine from the skin they had and set it close to the fire. She sat near him while they waited.

Sweat coated his brow and his eyes were closed. She brushed his hair away from his face, revealing the scars and all. _I cannot lose him. If I lose him, I will die. I can feel it already._ Her heart beat so hard, but so slow in her chest, as if waiting to stop with his.

She could not take to lose someone else in her life. Not when she had lost everything already. Her whole family was dead and gone. Winterfell was burned. Jory was dead and she did not know what happened to Jeyne Poole. Lady was dead. Highgarden was no longer a place of peace, and Willas only made her sad to think on now.

She wanted to beat her fists on the ground. She wanted to curse the gods for what they had done to her. But instead she wrapped her hands in cloth and told Sandor the tin was ready.

With trembling hands, Sandor cut away that leg of his breeches, revealing the nasty cut. He told her to pour water from a skin on it first, and she did so. It washed away most of the blood and her stomach turned at the sight of the true injury. _Oh, Sandor…_

She picked up the hot tin, trying so hard to keep steady. He clenched his jaw hard as she poured it over his leg. He cried out and lost consciousness. She was somewhat thankful that he had. She cleaned it with water again, after the wine cooled, and dabbed away the remaining blood with a cloth.

_Perhaps, I could stitch it while he’s still out. It’s worth a try._

She fumbled through the packs and thankfully managed to find a needle and various colored threads to match her dress. She chose grey, the plainest color, for it would be stained red soon enough. She tried hard to stitch the wound on his leg, but the needle was thin and kept bending and stabbing her fingers. The job was sloppy, to say the least, but the skin was closed.

Suddenly he was clutching her fingers hard, and pressing his dagger into them. He pointed to his chest with his other hand. “Here, little bird. Right here.”

She jerked her hand away. “What are you doing?”

“Slide the blade in, easy as cutting those silly cakes you used to love.” He chuckled, but it sounded like wheezing. “I deserve it. Do it.”

“No.” Tears filled her eyes.

“You don’t think I deserve it?” He gripped her wrist hard. “Don’t you remember all those times I scared you? Insulted you? I stood there, a member of the bloody Kingsguard in my white cloak, and watched them beat you. Don’t you remember when I laid my sword against your throat? Don’t you remember when I held this same dagger against your throat during the Battle of Blackwater? I told you to sing, but you didn’t know what I meant. I meant to _fuck_ you that night, couldn’t you tell? I took you with me instead, and then got us captured again. I knelt there while that shit king burned you to match me,” His voice broke. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he grimaced, but continued. “I deserve it. Do it.”

“Sandor, no.” She was weeping too.

“Little bird, please, if you’ve ever held any love for me in your heart, you’ll do it. Mercy, grant me mercy. _Please._ ”

“Forgive me, Sandor.” She threw the dagger away, pressing her face to where he pointed instead. “I cannot. Forgive me.”


	20. Chapter 20

Brienne rode up hours later. By then, he was unconscious and fevered. His skin was so hot that Sansa could hardly touch it. His wound was swollen and grotesque. Blood had dried and congealed all over Sansa’s arms and dress.

She watched his face intently. He twitched and groaned, and even shifted sometimes, but nothing more. She wet another torn cloth from her dress and used it to soak his brow until it was filthy.

“My lady,” She heard, as Brienne placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “This is not the Quiet Isle.”

“The Saltpans were burning.”

“I could fetch a few brothers from there to help get him over safely, but…” She cleared her throat a few times. “I cannot assure you that he will live. I am no maester, but his wound…”

“Fetch them, then.” Sansa gripped Sandor’s arm. “Do all that you’re able.”

Sansa remembered a time long ago. It was only a few moons before her life had changed, and the Royal Family had ridden to Winterfell. She had come down with a common sickness. She spent most of her days sleeping, waking only to eat and relieve herself. She was fevered, and could remember almost nothing of the time. It was spent in a foggy haze.

That was her time with Sandor now. She was dazed, lost in her mind but thinking nothing other than that she had to help him, had to _save_ him. No one else knew her like he did, had seen what she had been through, had _known_ like he did. He was so important. She could not lose him.

So when Brienne came back with a small group of brothers and a cart, she could scarcely walk through her emotions. The lady knight picked her up and held her like a child, hard against the metal of her armor. She was crying too, probably for the Kingslayer. Sansa never wanted him to die, never meant for it. She only wanted them to leave her alone.

“The Kingslayer-”

“ _Jaime_.” Brienne bit her swollen lip. “His name was Jaime. I brought his body with me, and gave him to the men on the Isle. They’ll see him cleaned and buried there. It’s a holy place. He’s a knight of the Kingsguard, a true knight, he deserves a holy place.”

“There are no true knights.” She found herself saying.

“There _are_.” Brienne replied. “I admit they are not many, but there are true knights. Jaime was the best of them.”

“He is called Kingslayer-”

“He was the _best of them_.” Brienne spoke through tightly clenched teeth. Sansa felt the lady knight’s tears drip on her own face.

“I’m sorry that Sandor killed him…” Sansa offered. “I never- He was trying to-” She couldn’t find the words.

Brienne said nothing to this. It did not take long for Sansa to fall into a dazed half-sleep. She was shaken gently awake when they reached the Isle.

“You’re covered with blood, my lady.” Brienne said. “The brothers have a bath for you and a clean dress. The bath is a bit cold, and the dress may not fit your station, but I’m sure it will please you well enough.”

“Is he being seen to?” Sansa asked.

“The Elder Brother is seeing him now.” She could see Brienne’s throat move as she swallowed. “He is not doing well.”

Sansa closed her eyes, breathing evenly. “I would be alone now. I do not need help to bathe.”

Brienne carried her to a small one-roomed house. It held a small bed, an unused fireplace, and a small tub filled with water. Sansa carefully stripped her clothing off and sat in the tub with her knees to her burned chest. The water was on the colder side of lukewarm, but it was nice and did not hurt her. Hot water usually upset her sensitive new skin.

She took her time washing the blood off of her, both Sandor’s and her own. The flesh on her shoulder started to bleed anew when she washed the old blood away. She continued to wash it, ignoring the stinging, until it stopped.

She bathed over and over until the water was cold. She rose from the small tub, dried herself, and pulled the clean dress over her head. The necks of the gowns Willas had made for her were unusually high, as to cover her burn, but this dress had a normal neckline that exposed half of it.

_Some things are more important than my shame._

She exited the cabin, searching for someone to give her news of Sandor’s condition. Brienne was there, and her eyes instantly locked with the flesh of her chest.

“My lady!” She exclaimed. “I had heard tales but I had never thought…”

“How is he?”

“He’s being seen to, that’s all I know.” Brienne glanced back and forth from her eyes to her chest. “Do _you_ need a maester, my lady?”

“Only if I am not taking one from Sandor.”

But they were on an Isle of holy men, and soon she was being seen to herself. Her shoulder stung as the maester poured a strange, sharp smelling liquid over it. He then bandaged it gently, and told her to be more careful. She knew it was all he could offer, and she thanked him anyhow.

“May I make a suggestion?” Brienne asked her as they ate with the brothers on the isle. The men had a thick, hearty stew but her stomach was churning and all she could manage was a hunk of half-burned bread and a few sips of cider. Brienne felt the same, she noted.

“You said that if I helped you that you would go with me. Jaime is... gone now,” She paused, taking a deep breath. “And your friend will not be suited for travel for some time, if he does manage to heal. My suggestion is that I take you to see your mother, so she knows that you are safe, while The Hound stays here.”

Sansa chewed her bread. _Perhaps that would be best. I would not have to sit around worrying, and Brienne can finally put down this mummer’s farce and leave us be._ “That would be fine. When would we leave?”

“On the morrow.” Brienne finished her own cider. “It is best that we make haste. Your mother is no longer a patient woman.”


	21. Chapter 21

Sandor jerked awake. His entire leg burst into searing pain, and he clapped his hand down on it to knead the flesh, but found that was an even worse idea. The pain had him sweating and swearing within a few minutes, and he lay back limply on the pillow.

“Milk of the poppy, for your pain.”

Sandor looked up to see a tall, red-nosed holy man with a perpetual scowl. The brother held the vial to his lips but Sandor pushed it away.

“I don’t want any of your damned milk of the poppy.” He grunted, trying not to howl from the pain in his leg. “Where’s the girl? Tell me.”

“What girl?”

“The red-haired one, _Sansa Stark_ , you bloody half-wit!” He tensed hard, causing another jolt of pain to surge up his leg.

“She’s gone with the Brienne of Tarth. She told me to tell you that-”

“Of course.” He jerked his head to the side. “I bet she filled the little bird’s ear with pretty lies about her mother still being alive. Doesn’t matter that she’s a woman, she’s a knight, and friend to the Kingslayer, and she’s no good.” Sandor reached forward, grabbing the brother’s robes and pulling him close. “You listen to me, _holy man_. If the little bird turns up hurt, or dead, or gone too long for any good to have come from it, I will slaughter every man, woman, and child on this spit of an island. Do you hear me?”

The man simply lifted the vial to his lips again, and this time he drank.

He dreamt of her, as he always did. They were not nightmares.

He dreamt they were still travelling together. That was a nice time in his life, just as nice as Highgarden was. In his dreams, she would smile sometimes, when in reality she never did. She wasn’t burned in his dream either. Her skin was smooth and flawless, and she did not feel any pain. He was still burned, but he did not remember was it was like to not be burned.

He dreamt he had not failed her the first time. He returned her to her family, and because of that, they did not attend the Frey wedding and find themselves dead. The war ended and all of them returned to Winterfell, and it was not as cold as he remembered because it was spring. She would laugh together with her living siblings, and her father still had her head. Her direwolf pup was there too.

It was the most painful thing, waking and finding it was all lies, all dreams. In reality, the little bird was burned and broken. She did not smile. She did not laugh. Her entire family was dead, and she had nothing but a scarred, mangy dog to trail behind her and kill for her.

_Dog. I am a dog. I’ve tried so hard, but a dog cannot become a man._

The pain flowed over him in pulsing waves. It was refreshing as well as terrifying. It reminded him that he was alive, but maybe not for long.

“How long?” Sandor’s tongue felt swollen and useless in his mouth.

“How long what?” The man’s forehead was pouring sweat, he noticed. There was a fire roaring in the fireplace.

“What’s that fire for?”

“You’re fevered. You’ve got to sweat it out.” The brother shrugged. “How long what?”

“How long have I been here?”

“Near a fortnight.”

“How long has the girl been gone?”

“She left the morning after you arrived. She has not returned.”

“Shit.” Sandor ran his hand over his own sweaty forehead. His hands were shaking, he noticed. He did not know why. “That’s too long.”

“They might have had to travel a long distance.”

“Where are they going?”

“She did not say. She only said that she was leaving with Lady Brienne, and that she would return.”

They sat in silence. Sandor noticed for the first time that he was in an extremely small cottage. The cot they had him laid in took up nearly a third of the entire place. His leg was elevated and throbbing painfully with each beat of his heart. He got no milk of the poppy upon awakening this time, he noted.

“I am the Elder Brother.” The man said after a moment. “Move your leg.”

“Are you touched in the head, or just blind?”

“Are you unable?”

“I’m perfectly able, but if you haven’t noticed, it’s twice its normal size and it’s _painful_.”

“I’ll help you then.” The Elder Brother stood and removed what had been set under his knee. He held up Sandor’s leg and forced it to bend, causing him to howl in pain.

“I noticed-”

“You’re trying to make conversation while you torture me, then?”

“I noticed the girl was burned.” The man continued, ignoring him. “How did that happen?”

“You can thank our late King Joffrey for that.” Sandor grunted, gritting his teeth together as the man forced his leg straight and then bent again. “Thought it was a fit punishment for escaping with me during the Battle of Blackwater.”

“I thought she was the king’s betrothed. Why would she want to escape?”

“Why would she want to escape?” He almost laughed. “That little shit had her beaten whenever the mood struck him. Stripped her almost naked in front of everyone at court once too. He would’ve done worse eventually, and he did.”

“He had you tortured too. I’ve seen the signs of it on your body. Scars from torture look far different from normal battle scars.”

“That he did. It was no less than I deserved. It was my fault that they caught us. We could’ve gotten farther away if my head wasn’t so far up my arse.”

“What are you doing with the girl now?”

“Seeing her safe for her betrothed, Willas Tyrell.” Sandor laughed bitterly.

The Elder Brother raised his eyebrows. “Interesting…”

“What are you implying?” He snapped in reply.

“I imply nothing.”

“You don’t have to use your words to suggest something, old man.” Sandor clenched his jaw against the pain and his frustration. “I know my place. I’d never step out of it. I’m the Hound, and that’s all I need to be. You’d do well to remember that.”

“You look more like a man than a hound to me.” The Elder Brother shrugged, dropping Sandor’s leg abruptly and causing him to hiss in pain. “Would you like milk of the poppy for your pain now?”

“Yes, and I’d also like for you to properly _bugger off_ and mind your own damn business.”

The holy man shrugged and held the vial to his lips. Sandor drank, and sank back into his dreams.


	22. Chapter 22

Sansa and Brienne had followed along the river near the Kingsroad. It wasn’t long until a band of outlaws came upon them, but apparently that is exactly what Brienne intended. Sansa had a potato sack that smelled of mud and sweat placed over her face, and they rode for what seemed like ages.

“Why am I hooded?” Sansa shifted her head where the rough cloth scratched her skin. “Where are you taking me that I am not allowed to see, Brienne?”

“I do not know, my lady.” Brienne responded from behind her, as they still rode the same horse. “I’ve been hooded as well.”

Sansa was suddenly very frightened. _What do these outlaws mean to do with us? Is Brienne tricking me? Oh, gods. I am a fool._

The outlaws chattered happily around them as they were led into the unending darkness of the unknown. There would be unexpected bursts of laughter that nearly drove her out of her skin. She trembled almost violently, causing Brienne’s armor to rattle loudly.

“Poor girl’s frightened.” Said a man’s voice. “It’s alright, sweetling. We’re taking you to your mother. But she’s _our_ mother now, too. Mother Merciless, we call her.”

“You are bringing me to Catelyn Tully, my lady mother?”

“Aye, she used to be Lady Catelyn.” The man replied. “’Fore the Freys decided to slit her throat.”

Sansa trembled harder. She remembered when her father had been executed, and Joffrey took her up to the battlements and made her stare at his head. She tried so hard not to look, not to react, but she cried herself into retching later as she remembered how his face, once stern and proud, had sagged limply and blood tricked from the edge of his mouth. She wondered if the outlaws meant to do the same with her mother. Was she going to be made to stare at her mother’s corpse until it pleased them?

Suddenly she was yanked from her horse and held in place by cruel clutching fingers. The sack was drawn off of her head, and the torches that burned all around made her squint and her eyes water. Brienne was shoved down beside her. She had been tied up and handled more roughly than Sansa had. She heard a strange sound, like someone sharpening a sword, come from a shadowed corner of the cave they were in.

“Where is the Kingslayer?” Sansa bit back a gasp as she recognized Harwin.

“Jaime was killed.” Brienne confessed. “Sansa did not trust us at first, and we nearly had to force her to go with us. Her… guard killed him.”

“Guard?”

“Sandor Clegane, the Hound. He was injured in his fight with Jaime. We had to leave him behind near the Saltpans.” _Brienne makes it sound like we abandoned him._ Sansa looked warily around the group. _Perhaps that is for the best._

Suddenly a cloaked figure stepped out from the darkness. Its voice came out loud and clear, but rasping and croaking like it had gone a thousand years without a drink of water. Sansa found that if she listened, she could make out the words.

“This is Sansa Stark?” The cloaked figure had asked.

“Yes, my lady.” Brienne replied. Sansa’s eyes snapped up to the figure. She could not see its face, but it was the same height as her mother was. Coarse, white-grey hairs fell from the hood, but surely her mother couldn’t have aged so rapidly?

“My daughter?” The figured stepped forward, and a light was cast over her face. Sansa flinched backward into the man who held her tight, and he pushed her back forward.

Her mother was a corpse. Her skin was blue-grey and hung from her face in ribbons. She was swollen and blotchy, and her eyes shone red like fire. Sansa swallowed the bile that built up in the back of her throat. Her fears had come true in the worst way.

The corpse pressed a cold, clammy hand to the exposed scars on her chest. “Who did this and why?”

“Joffrey did it. I was... punished.”

“Punished for what?”

“The night of the Battle of Blackwater, Sandor Clegane tried to bring me back to you and Robb, but we could not get far enough away. We were captured again. I was burned. They had him tortured. Margaery Tyrell saved us both.” She did not mention that it was Sandor’s over fondness for wine that got them caught. The woman who used to be her mother put off a feel of hatred and murder.

She turned to the outlaws. “This is my daughter.” She confirmed, and all of them seemed to understand what that meant. “Come, Sansa. We must hurry.”

The man behind her hauled her back up on her horse and her mother took the reins, leading it.

“Hurry? Where are we going?”

“We’re going to Winterfell.” Her dead mother turned her face towards Sansa, red eyes burning. “Arya has been captured and married by Ramsey Snow. We are going to kill him, and all of his kin. We will save Arya. We will recapture Winterfell, and we will rebuild it.” The corpse’s hand found her own, squeezing lightly and sending Sansa’s stomach to churning. What she would’ve given only a fortnight ago to have her mother’s comforting touch.

“And once we’ve done all that?”

“And once it’s over, you will be our Queen in the North.” Her lips were cracked and blue, and they could barely form a smile. “And you will rule.”

 _No, no, I do not want it._ Sansa fought back tears. _But I must. Arya is alive, she said. She needs us to save her. She needs me to recapture Winterfell._ The tears fell anyway. _I do not want it, but what I want does not matter._


	23. Chapter 23

It was when Brienne arrived back at the Isle without the girl in tow that he began to truly worry.

He had a long, sturdy crutch to help him walk. The muscles of his thigh were damaged and weak, and sometimes experienced painful spasms. He made his way out into the thick, muddy grass to greet them when they returned. To show the little bird that he was well. Only she was not there.

He struggled to keep his breathing even. “Where is she?”

The ugly woman gave him the most stupid look. “She’s with her mother.”

 _She’s killed her then. Killed her because I killed her bloody Kingslayer_. It was then that Sandor attacked her. He tossed aside his crutch and barreled into her, ignoring the pain in his leg.

It took six of those holy men to pull him off of her, and they had done so quickly enough that he did not have the chance to beat her entirely bloody. He only managed to break her nose and blacken one of her eyes. He was sure he had knocked a few teeth from her skull too.

He glared at her, his heavy breaths fogging out into the chilled air. “I’ll make you pay for killing her, you ugly sow. I’ll fucking throttle you, I swear it. And next time, there won’t be a group of holy men in the world who can save you.”

“I did not _kill_ _her_!”

“Where is she then? With her dead mother you said!”

“Her mother is a corpse, it’s true, but she walks and talks and breathes with the rest of us. Don’t ask me how, I do not know. She is a monster, truly, who cares for nothing but death and revenge. She wanted her daughters back, and she wanted revenge. I gave her Lady Sansa. She’s keeping the girl safe and taking her back to Winterfell to become Queen in the North.”

Sandor laughed. “So she went willingly, then? She went of her own free will with a corpse wearing her mother’s face, to become queen of a ruined castle?”

Brienne looked at the ground. “No. She was frightened. The last time I saw her, she was crying.”

“And you just left her.” Sandor snorted. “You’re no better than I am.”

She gaped at him. “I don’t _kill_ -”

“You _kill_ same as every other knight _kills_.” He shrugged the men’s hands off, stepping forward and grabbing the neck of her chestplate. He brought their faces closer together. He could see how ugly she was in truth now, but her eyes were huge and scared and blue- and he let her go. “The little bird isn’t going anywhere without me. If she wants Winterfell and being a Queen, that’s fine. I’ll serve her. But I’m not getting left behind.”

But when he made to gather his things and leave, the Elder Brother stopped him.

“You are not a prisoner on his island, Sandor, but I cannot allow you to leave until you’ve healed entirely. You’ll only hurt yourself. I will not allow you to die of this wound.” His mouth quirked up into a smile. “It would reflect poorly on my abilities.”

Sandor couldn’t help but laugh then, despite his frustration. “Every day that passes, she gets farther away. It will take longer for me to catch up. What would you have me do?”

“They will not make it to Winterfell within a fortnight.” The old man shrugged. “And when they do make it there, they must bide their time and strategize to take it back. If you wish to fight for your lady, you must be in the best health that you can be in. She will not need a lame soldier.”

Sandor was silent.

“I know how painful it is.”

“My leg or…?”

“Both.” The Elder Brother crossed his arms. “You can leave as soon as you are fully healed. But I hope you realize that Lady Sansa needs a trained warrior in her service, not a dog. I’m sure the kennels in Winterfell are full of fine hounds these days, but good warriors are hard to come by.”

“I’m no good warrior.” Sandor scowled. “I’d almost say you’re being blasphemous, using that word. Your own Warrior probably looks down upon me with shame.”

“The Warrior watches over all of his own. He watches over you.”

“No one watches over me, but I’m sure the Stranger follows me.” He rasped. “Sometimes I can feel his cold breath on my neck after I kill a man. He thirsts for blood and asks me to quench it.”

“And what of the Warrior? Is it not he who gives strength to your sword arm?”

“No one gives strength to my sword arm but me.” His palm reached for his missing sword. “That reminds me, I have a need for training.”

“You’ll damage yourself.”

“I’ll damage you before I let myself get weak.” He could feel his muscles atrophying. That would not do.

“Perhaps you should start off with simple exercises first.” The holy man suggested.

“Like what? Breaking your arms? I ought to.”

He sighed. “You have the stubbornness of a child. Do what you will. I cannot stop you. But know that whatever damage you do to your body will make your recovery longer.”

“I will be fine. I’ve _always_ been fine.” Sandor growled.

“Have you? It seems to me that if not for Lady Brienne, Lady Sansa, and I, you would’ve died a very painful death only a good walk from the isle.”

“You’ve got a mouth on you, old man. Why don’t you pick up some steel and fight me, then? You look like you’ve killed a few men in your day.”

The Elder Brother gave him a strange look. “I have. I was a knight, before I became a brother of the seven. But that was a long time ago… I will never hold steel with the intent to hurt or kill again. That is not my way. Not anymore.”

“A shame. I always liked beating knights. I suppose I’ll have to find something else to practice on, and I’ll be careful with my leg. I’m not about to let it tear open again just to spite you.”


	24. Chapter 24

They camped on the side of the road whenever the need for rest overwhelmed them. Lady Stoneheart, the outlaws called her mother’s corpse, had commanded them to set a tent in the center of the camp for Sansa, to keep her safe. She slept there alone. Her mother’s corpse did not need rest, or food, or drink.

“Mother?” Sansa called, peeking her head out from the flap of her tent. Lady Stoneheart was there in an instant. “Mother, I am… worried.”

“There is no need for that.” The corpse replied.

“I cannot help it. I don’t think I can be Queen of the North.”

This gave the corpse pause. “And why not?”

“I am betrothed to Willas Tyrell, heir to Highgarden. I am meant to be his lady.” It was only a small lie. Sansa was never officially betrothed to Willas, though they talked of it often. He seemed to not want to pressure her, and she had been relieved before, but not when facing her mother. “It would not be fair to be Lady of Highgarden and Queen of the North at the same time.”

“Betrothals can easily be broken.”

“No, mother, no!” Sansa’s throat ran dry and desperation pulsed through her veins. “I _love_ Willas, I do! I won’t marry any other!” Again, not quite a lie; She did love Willas, but only as one might love a brother or a dear friend. Even so, she felt that if she must marry a high lord, she would only marry Willas. It would be better to marry a friend than a total stranger. At least she knew that Willas had a kind and gentle heart.

“Sansa, do you remember my house words? The Tully words?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Say them for me.”

“Family, Duty, Honor.” Sansa swallowed hard. She felt like a small child again.

The corpse nodded. “Family, Duty, Honor. Arya is your sister, I am your mother, and we are your _family_. It is your _duty_ to help us save Arya, and it is your _duty_ to take the seat your brothers left for you. It is your _duty_ to see their deaths avenged. It is also your _duty_ to uphold the _honor_ of your house, whether it involves marriage to Willas Tyrell, or to a son of one of your bannermen. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mother.”

“And what are your words, as a Stark of Winterfell?”

“Winter is coming.”

“Indeed. Winter is no place for childish fantasies of true love and kindness. Winter is cruel and harsh. It is past time you’ve learned that. You will marry soon after a crown is placed on your head. You will bear your husband, whoever he may be, may children, and you will do so in the name of your house. You will learn to adjust, and may even find yourself happy someday.” The corpse’s eyes burned into hers. “But the little happiness that life contains is fleeting. Yours may have already passed you by. Do not mourn what is gone, my sweet daughter, but embrace what is being given to you. You will be queen.”

At that, Sansa ducked back inside of her tent and wrapped herself in her blankets once more. _My mother is truly dead then. My real mother never would’ve told me such things. My real mother always wanted me to be happy._ She wept into her blankets.

She missed Sandor Clegane. _When I left, I expected to come back. Now I’ll probably never see him again, if he’s even alive._ If only he were with her, she would’ve felt safer. After all that had happened, she could not help but trust him completely. He killed the Kingslayer for her. She did not even have to ask him to, he felt that she was threatened and protected her. She never should’ve gone with Brienne after that. The gods let the Kingslayer die for a reason.

She found herself praying that she would take some illness and die upon the road to Winterfell. It was selfish of her, because Arya would hate being a queen.

She slept that night, but had no rest. She broke her fast the next morning, but did not taste her food. She breathed, she blinked, and she spoke. Her heart beat and that was all. She felt like a mindless slave, like an animal. She found herself hating everyone around her. She hated what her mother had become the most. She hated more than she ever had in King’s Landing.

She decided that after Arya was saved, and Winterfell was safe, she would find a way to escape. She would wonder out unto a frozen lake, find a weak spot, and allow the frozen water to wash her away. She could sneak into the maester’s cabinets and drink an entire vial of sweetsleep. She could throw herself from a high tower, and for a moment know what it was like to truly be a bird.

Sansa’s heart ached each day, for she was lonely and melancholy. She wished with her whole being for a true friend, but she had known so little in her life that she doubted she would find one then. She cried herself to sleep each night. She had nightmares about the only ones who ever cared about her being ripped away. She dreamt of Lady’s death, of Sandor’s terrible injuries, and that Willas bled to death, stabbed by a thousand thorns.

She wondered if she was becoming a hateful corpse like her mother. She felt like it. She had paled and thinned, and her mother often called a maester to examine her. She wondered how many more times he would have to say that she was not ill before her mother had him hanged. She wondered if she could say anything to make her mother hang her instead.

So she stayed alive for Arya instead. Arya, her baby sister, was still captive in Winterfell and needed saving. Sansa would save her sister, but not herself. She knew Arya would be unhappy in the role of queen, but so would she, and despite all how selfish the thought was, she could not bear that title.

She could not live with golden shackles around her ankles and wrists. She would rather die, and if she had to, so be it.


	25. Chapter 25

The moon waxed and waned in the night sky. His wound burst from stress. He was forced to spend his time in a haze. He was given strange tonics and more milk of the poppy, but he was not given enough to sleep, they feared it might overwhelm him. He was given enough to hallucinate.

His hallucinations were more vivid than his dreams, and so raw. He saw Gregor’s shadow looming near the fireplace, his black eyes burning like the coals that had stolen his face. He would bear his teeth like a snarling dog and leap forward, and all of Sandor’s muscles would jerk him into reality, and his wound would bleed anew.

His hallucinations of the little bird terrified him more. Her hair would be flames and she would not burn, or her hair would be blood dripping down her scalp and shoulders. She would stand next to his bed, burning or bleeding, and she would take off her dress. He could see the burns and scars underneath. She would crawl on top of him, and he could not move. She would cup his face. Finally, his hands would move, but despite his repulsion he would still desire her, and would touch her anyway. The hallucinations would disappear as soon as his skin touched hers, and he would hate himself when reality returned.

Perhaps he had let her name slip past his lips, but somehow the Elder Brother _knew_. He would give him the most pitying looks and Sandor would have to resist the urge to growl at him like the dog he was told that he wasn't. The worst part was when he was made to talk about it.

“Sansa Stark is betrothed to Willas Tyrell, and will soon be Queen of the North, am I correct?” The old man asked him.

“Yes.” Sandor tried to resist the urge to grind his teeth together. It was an easy habit to get into, and one that his brother had since he grew teeth. Gregor ground his teeth down to stumps before he was twenty.

“How is it that you came to meet her, then?”

“I was Prince Joffrey’s sworn shield, back when he was a prince and still alive. King Robert hauled nearly every soul in King’s Landing up to Winterfell so he could visit that dead girl’s tomb and make Ned Stark his Hand.”

“Perhaps you should not speak so ill of King Robert’s lost love. Your own lady will be laid to rest in that same tomb someday.”

Sandor wanted to blacken his eyes. “Someday far off. She’s young still. If your gods are real, I’ll die far before she does.”

“Are you her sworn shield now?”

“I’ve laid no sword at her feet.”

“But you are sworn to her?”

Sandor’s head was fogged by the medicines. The words poured out. “I made a promise.” He swallowed. “I was broken, bleeding, and everything was burning. I went to her, and I promised to keep her safe. Days later, the both of us were beaten bloody and dragged back to King’s Landing to be tortured. I failed her once, but never again. My promise still stands.”

“How were you caught?”

“I was drunk.” He hoped he could shut up and hallucinate about her again.

“Why?”

“Slow myself down, so I had time to think before I did something.” He let out a bitter, rasping chuckle.

“Something like what?”

“Something I might regret, old man.” He growled. “Don’t you have some candles to light or some prayers to recite? Leave me in peace.”

He did, but not before forcing more tonics down his throat and covering his wound with a sweet-smelling poultice. Sandor willed the hallucinations to come again. They were better than dreams, more real, and as much as he hated himself afterwards, they also gave him comfort. He missed her. At least in his fogged mind he could see her face when she was not truly there, and touch her when he lived in a world that would cut his hands off for even thinking of it.

But in his mind, she burned. Gods, she burned. Her skin was scorching, like Stranger’s back after a long day in the hot sun. It nearly hurt his hands to touch her, but he did.

His hallucinations were almost innocent in nature, for him. She may have been naked, but he would only touch her legs, or on some daring occasions, her stomach. She would lean down and the fire that was her hair would lick at his face, or if her hair was blood it would drip all over his skin and bedding. She would open her mouth and breathe her sweet breath against his face, but he would not kiss her.

_I am going mad._

The vision disappeared. He was suddenly cut with the terror that she was gone, truly gone. She was far away where he could not reach her if she needed him at that very moment. He had promised to keep her safe, and he could not do so from a bed on the Quiet Isle.

He propped himself up and peeked underneath the poultice on his leg. His wound was healing slowly. He resolved to give himself no more than a week more to recover, and then he would leave regardless of the condition of his wound. He would ride carefully and continue to treat the wound on his own, and if all else failed, surely there would be a maester in Winterfell.

When he voiced his to the Elder Brother, the man frowned.

“You must be patient, Sandor.”

“I lack patience. My lady could be in need of me at this very moment, and I am too far away to be of any use to her.”

“You love her.”

It felt like he had been struck. He stepped forward, grabbed the old man, and shook him hard. “You will _never_ say that, or even suggest it, again. If you do, I will break both of your legs.” He rasped. “I’ve told you what I’m planning. You will not stop me, nor will you speak of my existence once I am gone. I will not have anyone doubting my intentions toward her. If you do, I will come back to this Isle and I will tear out your tongue.”

“You are very troubled.” The old man did not fear him. This made him angrier.

“ _Troubled_?” He laughed. “I suppose I am troubled. You are not helping, nor are your bloody tonics and potions. You can continue to treat me, but know this, I will leave at the end of the week, whether the Stranger follows me or not.”


	26. Chapter 26

They arrived at Winterfell. It was a ruin. All of the houses and buildings that had surrounded the castle were gone, but the castle itself, along with the stone walls protecting it, still stood. The gates were closed and torches burned brightly between the bodies of the dead that were stuck on top of the walls. The entire area was caked with snow and old soot, and smelled of death.

The group of outlaws was not large, Sansa realized suddenly, certainly not large enough to recapture a castle. But they had the bard speak for them, in his loud voice and pretty words, and shout to the men cowering behind the walls. He announced that they had Sansa, the true heir to the North, among other things that Sansa could not listen to through her fear.

She was then taken back to the camp for her own safety. Every day for a few days she was brought out to stand before Winterfell as the bard shouted the same speech over and over. Then, King Stannis came with his army.

He was nothing but courteous to Sansa, but still cold. His friend, the red woman, frightened her. The woman often stared at Sansa with a queer expression on her face. The red woman seemed even more fascinated with the Lady Stoneheart. The two women held the same burning look in their eyes. Sansa wanted no more of burning.

Stannis then decided that the walls outside of Winterfell would soon become a battlefield, and that was no place for Sansa. She could’ve hugged him at that. Winterfell was so haunted in appearance, and the corpses stuck on the walls made her stomach turn. Even when he sent his red lady with her to the camp, she was still relieved.

When she returned, Brienne was there.

“My lady,” Brienne knelt.

“Brienne,” Sansa was surprised. “I thought you had completed your task for my mother.”

“I thought I had too, and that’s why I left, only…” Brienne bit her swollen lip. “I returned to the Quiet Isle, to visit Jaime’s grave, and when I did the Hound was there waiting. He was so angry when I told him what happened. He- He said I had left you, and that I was no better than him. He was right.” She drew her sword and laid it at Sansa’s feet. “I promised to ensure your safety, and I will do so until my dying breath. Please, except my sword.”

“You wish to be my sworn shield?” Sansa asked, and a blotchy red trail descended up the lady warrior’s neck.

“Yes, if it pleases you, my lady.”

Sansa reached down and picked up the sword. It was so heavy; she did not know how Brienne could possibly use it for battle. If someone had handed it to Sansa and told her to fight, it only would’ve been good for her to throw it. She gripped the handle of the sword with both hands and bid Brienne to rise, then handed her sword back to her.

That night, the red woman visited her in her tent. Sansa had a small table set up where she would take her meals, and the red woman sat across from her there. Politely, she offered the priestess wine, and they sat in silence while they each sipped from their chalices.

“We were not properly introduced before.” The woman said. “My name is Melisandre. I am a priestess of R’hllor, the Lord of Light. I was told that your family still worships the old gods, the trees?”

There was lightness to Melisandre’s tone that indicated her feelings towards that. Many people shared the opinion that heart trees and the old gods were nonsense. Sansa wondered if she, or any of those people, had ever felt the power of a true godswood.

“I keep to the old and new gods both.” Sansa admitted.

“I see,” The woman offered a wry smile. “I’ve seen you in my flames, Lady Sansa.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“The Lord of Light gives me knowledge through his burning fires. He gives me visions of the past, the present, and sometimes the future.” Melisandre tilted her head. “Would you like to know what I saw?”

For some reason, Sansa was very frightened. She took another long sip of her wine and tried to calm her beating heart. “It does not matter. I cannot change any of that.”

“You could change your own future.” The woman frowned. “Why do you wish to harm yourself?”

“I would never want that.” Sweat prickled on the back of Sansa’s neck.

“You do. I have seen it.” The red priestess was eerily calm. “I’ve seen you throwing yourself off of a tower. I’ve seen you drinking poison. I’ve seen you wandering out into the wilderness to be attacked by animals. Why would you do these things?”

Sansa was silent.

“Are you unhappy?” And for a moment, the woman seemed to genuinely be concerned. Sansa’s saliva was thick in her mouth, and she swallowed hard before she nodded.

“What is it that makes you so unhappy?”

“I do not want to be queen. I do not want to be a lady. I only want… I only want…” Melisandre stared at her, waiting. “I only want to live my own life. I want my decisions to be my own.”

With a sad smile, the red priestess reached forward, cupping Sansa’s cheek. “Poor child. You’ve known so much sorrow and fear in your life. You’ve known such darkness. Perhaps the Lord of Light will brighten your path, and scare away the terrors that lie there. You are so brave, and you must continue to be, for your path is connected to many others. Other futures depend upon your own.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Someday, you might.” Melisandre stood. She was much taller than Sansa, who stood a little over grown women at four and ten. She was red, so red, like blood and fire and pain. “Sleep well, child, and remember: the night is dark and full of terrors.”

And when she left, Sansa’s tent grew cold.


	27. Chapter 27

Sandor’s wound was only half-healed by the end of that week, but he set out anyway. The Elder Brother offered him supplies, and he accepted. He packed them into Stranger’s saddlebag and hoisted himself up unto the horse, ignoring the soreness of his thigh.

“Sandor,” The Elder Brother patted the horse’s neck as he spoke. “You will do what you feel you must, and I understand that, but remember what I’ve said to you. Lady Sansa needs a man, a good warrior, not a dog. You’re not a hound.”

“I suppose I’m not. I don’t think I have been since I heard of Gregor’s death. He was what made me the Hound.” Sandor tightened his hands on the reins. “He’s dead now, though, so I don’t need that old dog anymore. No one does.”

“One last thing,” The old man said. “What do you intend to do once you reach your lady?”

“Stand beside her, fight for her, keep her safe.”

“And that’s all?” He folded his arms.

Sandor growled. “What does that mean?”

“You would stand aside as she became queen, married another man, and had his children?”

“I _know_ my place.” He closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. “And I’m not about to deny the girl her happiness. She will become queen, and she’ll get whatever she wants. She deserves it.”

“And what do you deserve, Sandor?”

 

“A lot worse than I’m getting.” He nodded to the holy man. “Goodbye, Elder Brother.”

* * *

 

There was a storm hanging in the sky..

He was entering the Neck. The wind was blowing wild and it chilled him to the bone. He stopped Stranger and went through what he had packed, putting on every tunic he had with him, layer after layer. Then it started raining. He was surprised it wasn’t snow, but maybe it just wasn’t quite cold enough.

He found a patch of trees, one with low enough branches to sling his cloak over and sit beneath. He couldn’t ride in that weather. Stranger spooked every time thunder cracked overhead and he could barely see through the storm.

He could probably ride for a few more hours north to hit snow, but the last thing he needed was to have Stranger trudging through snow. He wondered if it was snowing in Winterfell, and how the little bird was doing. He hoped she wasn’t throwing herself in piles of snow again, hoping to freeze to death before she was found. The thought made his stomach turn.

_I am a fool. I’m more of a fool than Willas Tyrell, and the bloody Knight of Flowers, and Dontos and the Moon Boy put all together. I’m the biggest fool there ever was._

He tried not to think of the night they were captured. He cursed himself for it. How hard would it have been to drink more water instead of wine, to ride only a little further away from King’s Landing, to think about the damn danger that they were in rather than all the reasons why he couldn’t kiss her pretty lips like he so wanted to. He felt selfish. It was his fault the girl was hurt. He promised no one would hurt her, and yet she was hurt more anyway.

He would do anything to make it up to her, even if it meant standing by while she was crowned Queen in the North, and standing by while some fat, pompous lord draped his cloak over her shoulders, and she birthed children she would love more than the world. If she wanted that, she would have it. He would not stop her. She deserved her happiness, no matter what kind of feelings it provoked inside of him.

He was never meant to have her anyway. He had told her so many times that life was not like her made-up songs, and yet he had found himself _hoping_ when he shouldn’t have. _Gods, I am a fool._ He wanted her in ways that were embarrassing. He had wanted women in the past, but it was all about fucking. With the little bird, he would’ve been contented with her hand in his, or if he dared to dream, a brief kiss on his ruined cheek.

Perhaps he did love her. He wasn’t sure. He hoped he didn’t, it wasn’t his place to love her. Feeling that way about her would only bring misery to him, and probably to her too. He knew that if he loved her, he wouldn’t stop. She could marry a hundred men and give birth to a thousand children, and become old and ugly and hunched. She could grew warts and have all her teeth fall out, but so long as she stared up at him with those eyes and offered him a few pretty chirps, he could not stop.

His eyes closed, and did not know how long he had dozed for. When he awoke, it was light outside. The rain had become only a drizzle. Stranger was nearby, lifting his head to rip leaves from the trees. His black coat shone with moisture. Sandor was soaked to the bone, and cold. He had no dry clothes, as he was wearing all the clothes he had. He tried taking them off and wringing them out. It only helped some.

He climbed into his saddle again. The leather was wet and likely ruined. He would have to get a new one at Winterfell. He was only half a fortnight off, if he hurried. He had forgotten how much easier it was to travel alone. Still, he would’ve given anything to return to travelling in the flatlands with the little bird, or even better, returning to Highgarden.

Sandor found himself realizing that he truly wouldn’t mind if Sansa married Willas Tyrell. He may have been an optimistic fool, but he was a good man with a kind heart. He was leagues better than Joffrey. Willas would care for her, love her like she deserved to be loved. He would give her children that were fair of face, and they would grow up surrounded by beautiful gardens.

But she was in Winterfell, and instead of being a lady surrounded by flowers, she would be a queen surrounded by winter. She could almost imagine her, cold and beautiful, perched on the chair her father sat. He found that he could not imagine a better queen than Sansa Stark.


	28. Chapter 28

She was afraid. There was anger there too, but mostly fear. Her heart beat so fast it hurt her chest, and she had to resist the urge to place her hand there to slow it. She could not show her fear, she had to be brave, but when she masked her fear, the anger came forward instead.

They had told her that a man had been captured just outside of their camp. He had fought and killed nearly a dozen soldiers before they subdued him. He was asking for her, they said, and wanted to know if she would see him.

So she did. But when she arrived, she was not looking at an enemy or a strange man; she was looking at Sandor Clegane. He was bruised and bloody, covered in sweat and grime. He grinned up at her from his chains.

“Ah, _Your Grace_.” He nodded to the men guarding him. “I almost took down half of your army before I got a little winded. I let them capture me rather than kill me.  You did command me to not die.”

The anger rose in her chest, high and fast and relentless. She whirled on the men that had brought her to him.

“I told you days ago to allow Sandor Clegane passage into our camp.” She hissed, advancing toward the soldier. He was a Baratheon soldier, heavy armored. Stannis never would’ve stood for that, and so Sansa wouldn’t either. “Do you not know a command when you hear one?”

“Lady Sansa, we did not know it was him.”

“And what does Sandor Clegane look like? You may have never met him before, but surely you had heard tales. Surely you had heard that he is a tall man, dark of hair, with a large scar on his face. Did you not hear this, just as you did not hear my command? Did you not see this man? Are you blind as well as deaf?”

The soldier was starled. “I- My lady-“

“Release him, _now_. Take him to my tent, and I will see that he is seen by the maester who attends me. It is the least that can be done to make up for _your_ insolence.”

Sandor was laughing as they unchained him. He could hardly stand straight, and Sansa ordered the soldiers to support him. When they reached her tent, Sansa had them set up a cot for him to rest in.

“Well, well,” Sandor laughed again, loud and rasping. “I wasn’t sure whether I was listening to a little bird out there, or Cersei Lannister herself.”

“Don’t say that.” The grin dropped from his face and he lapsed into silence. The maester came and went. Sandor had a few bruises on his ribs, and some cuts that were stitched and patched up nice and clean. The cut on his leg was not healed all the way, and Sandor was advised to keep off of it for as long as he could bear. After that, they were left alone.

She realized it wasn’t proper for her to be alone in her tent with a man, but she cared little for propriety. People talked of her often enough anyway. Remarked on how the Lannisters had burned away her beauty, and how it would be a struggle for Stannis to find anyone to marry her. She heard soldiers laugh over japes at her expense, how they wondered if her breasts were tough and leathery, if they were even still there. She wept when she heard these things.

But it was not as if she could leave. She was to be queen. She looked over at Sandor, realizing he couldn’t leave either, or he’d be branded a craven and deserter all over again.

“So we’re both trapped now.” She sighed at this, hoping to take some of the heavy weight off of her heart.

“Trapped?” He turned his head towards her. “No, neither of us are trapped. I’ll be a soldier to you, a guard if you want, and you’ll be queen.”

“I don’t _want_ to be queen.” Sansa took a long, shaky breath. “I never would’ve gone with Brienne, had I known. My mother is alive. Arya is alive. We’re trying to get her back, and save her from the Boltons, but I have to be queen in order to help. I have to help my sister, even if it means being queen when I don’t want to be.”

Sandor gave her an odd look, and then, after a moment of struggling, sat up to face her. “Listen, little bird. I’m not going to let you leave me behind, and I’ll help you if you need me. I’ll help you save your little sister. I’ll kill a thousand Boltons and string them up in the trees. I’ll carry your little sister out of Winterfell and place her in your dead mother’s arms, safe and sound. And once that’s done, I’ll take you away again, if you still don’t want to be queen. All you have to do is ask me.” He seemed to grasp at his words for a moment. “I’ll do _anything_ you ask of me.”

Sansa gripped the arm of her chair to keep herself steady. She breathed deeply, and evenly, with her eyes closed. She never expected something like that from him. She wondered briefly what she could’ve done to provoke such loyalty in him. She could not help but trust him completely. He had failed her once, but he was the first to try to help her. He had been with her at the ends of the earth. He had known who she used to be, and who she was at that moment.

“Sandor, I… I’ll have to think about that. Arya, she’s the only one I have left. Maybe we could bring her with us, if she wants to go.”

“I said anything and I meant it.”

Tears flooded her eyes and she nodded mutely. She felt that even if she did become queen, no one would ever be as faithful to her as he was in that moment. But a question arose in her mind: Could she leave the last of her family and her home behind, and be contented with only knowing they were safe? She truly did not know.


	29. Chapter 29

“Please, save my sister.”

Those were the last words she had said to him before he rode into battle. It wasn’t even a command, but from the look on her face he could tell this was something that she needed. If her sister were killed, he knew it would be over for her. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

So he sharpened his sword, and some squeaky-voiced squire oiled his armor and helped him into it. He was even given some armor for Stranger too. _It must be a big battle, to armor our horses._

He knew he’d be more useful from atop a horse. His leg was only a weak point for him now. He had some blacksmith boy reinforce the steel that went on his legs before the battle as a precaution.

The Boltons had a lot of men, but the trouble was that they preferred to stay inside of Winterfell, shooting shit at them from the other side of the walls. They shot rocks, and even cattle, but then they started setting coals aflame and shooting those over instead.

Sandor cursed and managed to hold himself close to the wall. The rest of the army, Baratheon and Northern men alike, did the same. Men used forward from the wood, hauling a massive battering ram. The end of it was shaped like a direwolf’s head. He wondered whose idea that was. He rushed forward to help them, glancing up quickly before noticing that there were no archers to shoot at them from the top of the walls. Maybe the walls were littered with too many corpses on display, or maybe they were just stupid.

He dismounted and grabbed up the battering ram near the end, helping them heave it against the gates. It was then that he noticed that someone was shooting arrows at them, and he took a second glance up at the top of the wall. There _were_ archers up there, but they were cowering behind the corpses. They were less skilled than whichever man on the other side of the wall was shooting down whoever showed his face. It seemed their fear was causing their aim to sour. Very few arrows hit their mark.

The next thing he knew, the gates burst open and the Bolton men were flooding out. It was as if Winterfell were an anthill and they had kicked it. There were more men than he anticipated. He mounted Stranger again, riding hard and fast and swinging his sword wildly. He killed a good number of men himself, while Stranger trampled the ones that got in his way.

He brought Stranger to a halt and swung hard at the men that began to surround him. He cut one man in half and took the head off of another. Stranger was biting, kicking, and rearing. Sandor dug his heels back and Stranger bolted forward again. One man had grabbed ahold of his leg in an attempt to pull him from his saddle. He kicked the man off of him and let Stranger do the rest.

He was covered in sweat and blood by the time the fighting was done. The ground outside and inside of Winterfell were littered with bodies from both sides, but mainly Bolton men. Lady Stoneheart had perched herself atop the portion of the wall over the gate. She had her arms raised over her head, and she was laughing hysterically towards the sky. Her hood had fallen back, revealing her entire visage. Sandor turned away.

He dismounted Stranger and forced his way inside of the castle. There were no men inside, only a few tables and many empty wine bottles.

“Fan out!” Shouted one of the Baratheon commanders. “Find Ramsey Snow and Arya Stark! Take Snow prisoner, and bring Lady Arya to her sister in the camp!”

The soldiers began searching the barren castle and the grounds outside. But Sandor stayed put. _If I were a she-wolf, where would I hide?_ He thought back on his time there, long ago, with the royal family. Most everything had been destroyed since then, and the only place that seemed good for hiding would’ve been…

He stepped out of the castle and rounded back near the walls. The entrance to the crypt was still there, but blocked from the inside. _Someone is hiding in here._ He couldn’t pull out the large bits of wood and rock that blocked the passage, so he pushed them in instead. They gave after a few good pushes, and soon he had a hole large enough to look in. He poked his head inside, staring into the blackness of the crypt.

He pulled back out and cleared the entire path before a few other soldiers had found him. Fortunately, one soldier lit him a torch and they made their way into the crypt.

“Arya Stark?” One of the soldiers called out. “We’re here fighting for your sister, Sansa. We’ll bring you to her. You only need to come out.”

Suddenly an old man hobbled out of the darkness. He grinned at them, his mouth a gaping horror, and yanked something hard behind him.

“I’ve got her here,” He pulled the girl forward. His arms were thin and scrawny, and he could barely support her weight. “This is Arya Stark! Here! We’ve been hiding!”

Sandor stepped forward, pulling the small girl off of the cold stones of the crypt. She was unconscious. He stared hard at her face. Something was wrong.

“ _This_ is Arya Stark?” Sandor asked, and the old man nodded enthusiastically in response.

“This is Ramsey Bolton’s bride.” He pushed the girl farther into his arms until he was holding her like a child. “You must keep her safe. Take her to Sansa. She’ll keep her safe. She must stay _safe_. She’s Ned Stark’s daughter. She’s _Arya Stark_. That’s her _name_.”

“I’ll take her to Lady Sansa.” Sandor turned and walked out of the crypt. He would take the girl to Sansa, but he knew that the girl he was holding was not Arya Stark. He only hoped that he had not failed her again, and there was still a chance to save Sansa’s sister, wherever she was.


	30. Chapter 30

Sandor pushed the flap of her tent open with his foot and entered, bending over slightly to fit inside. He was holding a small, scrawny girl in his arms. She was wrapped up tightly in a cloak, and her brown hair was wild about her head. Sansa’s heart leapt into her throat.

“Arya.” She whispered, stepping forward and grabbing the girl out of Sandor’s arms.

“Sansa-“

“Please, Sandor, please let me just hold her for a moment.” Sansa pressed her forehead into the girl’s stomach. “I’ve held her a thousand times before, since we were children together in Winterfell. She didn’t like me holding her, but she let me sometimes. Just let me hold her, just for a moment, and then you can send the maester.”

He looked as if he were about to speak, but thought better of it and fell silent. Sansa knelt by her bed, laying the girl down on it. She was still so little, after all this time. She had gotten taller though. Sansa smiled to herself as she realized that Arya was older than she herself had been the last time they had seen each other. She brushed the brown hair off of Arya’s face to press a kiss to her little sister’s forehead when she was struck by the foreignness of what was revealed.

She turned to Sandor. “She is _not_ my sister.”

“I know. This is Ramsey Snow’s bride.”

“They said Arya was Ramsey Snow’s bride.” Sansa fisted her fingers into her palm, the nails digging in. “Where is my sister?”

“Not here. Might be she never was.” He stepped closer to her and reached a hand out for her shoulder, but she batted it away. “It was all lies. I suspect the Bolton bastard made up the lies himself, to strengthen his hold over Winterfell. Married this little brown-haired peasant girl and pinned the name on her.”

She took a deep, hissing breath. “Where is my sister?”

He falters. “I don’t know.”

Her voice is high and pinched. “Get out.” Unshed tears burn behind her eyes.

“Little bird-“

“I said _get out_.” She turned away from him, hiding behind the curtain of her thick hair. He paused, and almost looked as if he were going to attempt to touch her again, but then left instead.

She clenched her jaw and closed her eyes, trying to force the tears back into her skull. All of this was for nothing. She looked down at the girl that was not her sister. Her face held a slight familiarity, but not so much as her sister’s would. Sansa reached out to brush more hair away from her face when the girl’s eyes snapped open and she grabbed her wrist in a vice-like hold.

The girl’s eyes weren’t even grey, not even close, but they flashed with recognition anyhow. “Sansa. Oh, sweet mother, it’s _you_.”

“Who are you?” Sansa asked, trying to pry the girl’s fingers off of her wrist.

“I’m Arya Stark- Bolton- Stark. I’m- My husband is Ramsey Bolton.” The girl grimaced, her face twisting in pain. “You’re Sansa Stark. My sister. My big sister. _Sansa_.”

“You’re not Arya.” Sansa was trying desperately to get her fingers off, but they only clenched tighter. “You’re hurting me. Who are you?”

“You’re my sister. I’m Arya Stark. Don’t you recognize me?” The girl let go of her wrist, but only so she could clasp her arms around her shoulders and hug her tight, too tight. “You have to _recognize_ me. I’m your sister. _Your sister_!”

Her shoulder was bending back from the force of her embrace, causing the already tight skin to pull even tighter before giving. Sansa felt the warm blood pool through her dress and cried out from the pain. And then Sandor was there again, yanking the girl off of her. Sansa stumbled over to her bed, clutching at her wounded shoulder with her good arm, and failing to fight back her tears.

“I’ll take her someplace safe.” He said. “I’ll call your maester for you, too.”

A sob finally broke through once he left with the strange girl.  She sank down into her bed, letting herself fall limp while she wept into her pillow.  Where was her real sister, where was the real Arya?

The maester came. He rubbed stinging medicines on her shoulder and bound it tight, and then forced the arm into a makeshift sling. He told her that she must be more careful with it, and if she kept breaking the skin there, it would soon take infection and she could die. Sansa only closed her eyes to those words. She would not die. The gods were too cruel to grant her the peace of death.

No, she’d be forced to stay. Stannis would give her Winterfell and make her queen. She’d rule a kingdom full of strangers. She could not run away with Sandor. They would find them, and kill him, and take her back. They would hurt her, like everyone else always did. They’d marry her to a cruel old lord who would rule Winterfell for her, and hold her down each night so she could do her duty and make his babies.

She tried to imagine what it might be like, if she could ever get used to it. She imagined some foul-breathed stranger over her, his faced masked in darkness, his fingers digging into her hips and pinching, pinching, _burning. No._ She could never get used to that. She never wanted to burn again. She had enough of pain and servitude. _No. No_. She scrambled awkwardly over to her chamber pot and retched into it.

Winterfell would not be King’s Landing come again. She would not allow it. No one wanted a burned, ugly, breastless woman for a wife. No one wanted a mad one either.


	31. Chapter 31

_Queen Sansa Stark. Queen of the North._ Sandor rolled the idea in his head around a few times. He knew she did not like it, she did not want it, but the title fit her so well. It was designed to fit her, no matter how hideous she thought it was.

Stannis had worked out the politics with Lady Stoneheart. It seems that he respected the corpse more than the little bird, simply because she was the bird’s mother when she was alive. So Sansa would become queen, and when Stannis took the iron throne he would allow her to stay queen, but she must marry one of his lords.

He brought many of them to meet her, over the time that Winterfell was being restored. Sandor hated all of them. Sansa no longer had her modest dresses that Willas gifted her at Highgarden, and had to wear ones that revealed her burns instead. It seems that once those lords realized she had no pretty teats for them to leer at, their interest in her ended, but not their interest in Winterfell.

So they feigned interest in her. They spoke while she looked obviously bored and yawned into the crook of her elbow. They tried to give her gifts, but she refused. She was a clever bird, though, and when one asked what he might do to impress her, she had glanced over at him and said she would love to see his skill in battle.

Sandor was charged to fight the lord. Even with his weak thigh, he defeated the lord easily. Sansa clapped, but did not smile. She never smiled. The lord, bruised and humiliated, left the next day. Sandor was glad to have helped.

These events mostly repeated themselves until the lords stopped visiting. Stannis was unhappy, and sent many strongly worded letters to Sansa. She poured over them while he was in her company. She had appointed him Commander of her guard, and he was also an advisor of sorts.

“What will you write back?” Sandor asked, taking a quick sip of his wine. It was watered down until it was nearly tasteless, but drinking it made him feel uneasy still. She had suggested that he get used to drinking things other than water again. Winter was coming after all.

“That I am disheartened, and that his lords simply do not show an interest in me. I will lament over my lost beauty, and apologize for my hindrance of his plans for my kingdom.”

Sandor snorted. “Perhaps he’ll have enough sense to send a lord who isn’t a total imbecile. One you’ll like.”

“I’ll not marry until I’m shown a man who does not seek to own me and control me.”

“Perhaps you’ll never marry then.” He shrugged. “Do your old gods have something akin to the silent sisters?”

“The old gods do not have a religion so organized as that of the Seven.” Sansa tilted her head as she pinned her letter. “Mayhaps that’s why the faith of the old gods lacks the corruption we see in the faith of the Seven.”

Sansa received another letter that same evening, from Willas. Sandor felt a bit bad for him. He knew how the Tyrell fool had worshipped the little bird. Willas had written her a very kind letter, filled to the brim with praise and good wishes, and instead of having it delivered by a raven, it was delivered by the hawk he had gifted her so long ago.

He thought Sansa might cry at that, but instead she brushed the feathers on the bird’s head and let out a small sigh. She turned to him then.

“Would you like to hear something amusing?” She asked.

“Go ahead.”

“During Loras Tyrell’s siege of Dragonstone, he was burned with oil.” Sansa gave him a strange look. “He’s survived after all this time, but not without his own scars. Willas says every time he hears a whisper of his brother, he hears about you as well. They say the Hound has become more handsome than the Knight of Flowers.”

“That isn’t amusing.”

“I know. I thought you may find it amusing. I only think the world is a strange place.”

“I never much liked the Knight of Flowers, but I pity him. I know what being burned is like, as do you.”

* * *

 

Fortnight after fortnight passed. Moons came and went in the sky. Sansa grew increasingly troubled. She barely ate, and she stayed awake more often than she slept. He worried for her.

He could not stay with her every moment of the day, and even when he was with her, his presence barely helped. Sometimes she would curl into herself, sobbing and choking tearlessly. Sometimes she would scream at her servants. Some days she refused to speak to anyone, and some days that included him.

Eventually, Lady Stoneheart was called to talk some sanity into her daughter. Sandor was there that day. The former Lady Catelyn cornered her daughter at the top of the castle’s serpentine. The corpse would croak something unintelligible at her daughter, and Sansa would cry or shout and deny it, and tell the corpse to leave her alone. Finally, the corpse said something to her, long and winded and in tones that brokered no rebuttal, and the little bird broke.

“You’re not my mother!” She screamed. “My real mother is dead!” Then her arms lashed out and the corpse went tumbling down the stairs. Lady Stoneheart was unharmed, but hissing with anger like a shadowcat. He was ordered to take the little bird and restrain her until she came to her senses.

He grabbed her up and hauled her to her chambers. He set her gently on the bed and knelt before her. “Have you gone mad, little bird?”

She lay on her side, curling over and biting her lip. “Yes.”

His mind reeled. “Have you been doing this on purpose?” She looked away from him. “Tell me. I’m not going to go and spill your secrets. Who would I tell?”

“No one wants a mad wife, right?” Her hand reached out and her long fingers wrapped around his. “Please, tell me that no one wants a mad wife. I thought… I thought maybe if I acted as crazy as I felt on the inside, I could drive them all away. They would leave me alone. I could be so awful that Winterfell didn’t seem worth it anymore. Please, tell me it could work.”

“I don’t know.” He clenched her hand softly. “You know more about these things than I do.”

She sobbed, pushing her face down into her bed. “I thought about taking my own life once. Melisandre, the red priestess, she knew. It wasn’t a good idea anyway. They’d just give Winterfell to some stranger. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. But I won’t be a slave, Sandor, I won’t. I won’t be raped by a stranger every night and I won’t give my home to his children. I’ll kill him myself before I do that. I don’t care if it makes me like Cersei.”

“You wouldn’t have to. I told you, little bird, I’ll do anything you ask of me.”

“Why?” She wiped away her tears with her free hand. “You could barely stand me in King’s Landing. You only felt bad for me in Highgarden, don’t deny it. What’s changed since then? You’ve sworn no vows to me, you owe me no allegiance. Why would you do these things for me?”

Sandor found that he could not bring himself to tell her the truth. He could not tell her that it pained him to see her so upset, so unhappy. He could not tell her that he wanted to strangle anyone who even thought about hurting her, and how often he had to resist the urge. He couldn’t tell her how he hadn’t known what he had felt for her for so long, and how in King’s Landing he hated his affection for her because it opened up a wound in his soul. He could not tell her that he loved her, and that he would leap into flames if it meant that she would smile.

Instead, he clutched her fingers and told her little truths. “You were kind to me when I did not deserve it. I had not known kindness in so long. I made you a promise and I failed you. I mean to still keep that promise. I owe you a debt I can never repay.”

“What promise?”

He inhaled sharply. “You’ve forgotten.”

“No, I haven’t.” She sat up, clenching his hand almost painfully now. “Again, promise me again. These will be your vows to me, Sandor. I will charge you to guard me from all harm, not just bodily harm, but you must vow again.”

He stood, bringing her to her feet with him. “I’ll keep you safe.” He rasped. “No one will ever hurt you again, or I’ll kill them. This is my oath to you. Not to your kingdom, not to your family, to _you_. Do you understand?”

“Yes, thank you.” She was crying again. Her arms went around him and she crushed herself into his chest, nearly knocking the breath out of him. She whispered into his tunic. “I’ve never trusted someone so completely before.”

That was enough to bring tears to his eyes too, but he didn’t show it. Instead he held her shoulders and let her cry until she was tired. He left then, so she could sleep.

 _I am a fool._ This time, he was not ashamed.


	32. Chapter 32

Sandor was there the day that everything changed. He and Brienne were guarding Sansa while she discusses simple politics with some of her townsfolk. The castle was slowly healing around them. It was warm inside the castle, but cold outside. Winter had not come in full force, not quite yet, but it was coming.

Lady Stoneheart had gone to search for traces of her second daughter, believing her first was slowly going mad. Sandor thought it better that she left¸ and he believed that Sansa shared that feeling. He did not say so.

Spending time in Winterfell, he had learned their house words well and took them to heart. He couldn’t help but respect the practicality of it. The Stark’s words did not brag of their own strength or prowess, but instead held in mind what was more important than that. The world was cruel, and the Starks seemed to know it.

One of the townsfolk had gifted Sansa with a kitten. She picked the smallest one, skinny and orange-haired. She held the kitten in the crook of her good arm and petted it every now and again when it shifted. When the man burst inside of the castle, Sandor drew his sword. The tiny kitten hissed loudly and dug its claws into Sansa’s arm, but she did not seem to notice.

“What? What’s going on?” She craned her neck to see the man.

“My Lady Sansa,” The man said, huffing his words out and nearly keeling over. “I must speak with you privately. I’m an ally of Stannis, and the Manderly’s. We have important things to discuss, and you have many ravens to send.”

“Of course.” Sansa handed her kitten to Brienne, who took it gently, and went to follow the man.

“You- Hound.” The man dragged forward a dirty little scrap of a child. “Watch the boy, he’s quite fearsome.” And then Sansa left into the next room with him.

The townsfolk scattered quickly at the absence of their lady, and soon only Sandor, Brienne, the child and the frightened kitten were left in the room.

“I’m glad he told me you’re a boy.” Sandor said to the child. “I never would’ve guessed otherwise.”

The boy scowled and said nothing. They stood in silence while the boy scrutinized him. Brienne was trying desperately to calm the kitten but nothing was working. Finally the boy growled and snatched the kitten from her arms, holding it by the skin at its neck.

“ _This_ is how kittens are held by their mother.” The boy explained, as if Brienne were stupid. “When they are upset, it’s best to hold them _this_ way.” He handed the kitten back and she did the same as he did. Soon the kitten had calmed itself enough to be held properly. But the boy never took his eyes off of Sandor the entire time.

“What are you staring at me for?” Sandor rasped.

The boy’s lip curled up. “You’re the smallest giant I’ve ever seen.”

And Sandor roared with laughter. He laughed harder than he had since he saw his brother defeated by the Knight of Flowers, then a green boy of only sixteen, at Ned Stark’s tourney in King’s Landing. Brienne was laughing too, and the boy managed a nervous giggle watching the both of them.

“Might be I’m only half giant.” He crouched down, eyeing the boy. There was something familiar about him. “But what are you, boy?”

“I’m… I’m a wolf.” The boy replied confidently.

“Is that some wildling tribe?”

“The boy was only raised a wildling, not born one.” Sandor looked up to see a woman, messy-haired and thin as a twig, standing nearby.

“And who are you?” Brienne asked.

“The wildling what raised him… Well, one of them.” She stepped forward, ruffling the boy’s long red hair. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen this place. Only heard a little bit of what happened to it. That onion said some bad men burned it down, eh, Rickon?”

“Aye, and killed everyone inside.” The boy nodded, looking up at Sandor. “Osha told me the same. Said we were here when it happened, but I didn’t believe her. I don’t remember. Were you here?”

“No, but I was here to reclaim it. I helped lock up the man that put this castle to the torch. He’s still in the dungeons, waiting on our lady to pass judgment on him. What did you say your name was again?”

“Rickon.” The boy lifted his hand and chewed on a dirty fingernail. “Osha and the onion told me I have another name after that. Stark. That the lady here is my sister. I don’t know if I believe that either.”

Sandor’s eyebrows shot up.

“Gods be good, they said you were dead!” Brienne gasped, and then turned to the wildling woman. “Are you certain this is Rickon Stark?”

“I’ve been with him since before Robb Stark rode off to war. He was a sad little thing, then. He cried each day for his mother.” Osha smiled. “He’s still got his wolf, too. They had to chain him up outside. He’s too mean to let into the castle just now.”

“He favors his mother. I see it now.” The warrior maid looked as if she were about to cry. Sandor was confused and frantically questioning himself as to what this meant for the little bird.

Then the lady herself was there, shrieking the boy’s name and falling to her knees to embrace him. “I thought you were dead! Oh, oh, I thought I had lost all of you! You’re here. Rickon, gods, it’s you.”

The little boy was crying then too. His tears left clean marks down his filthy little face and he petted the curls at his sister’s curls, whimpering like the little wolf he was. Brienne was whimpering herself then. Sandor and Osha just stood and watched.

And then he realized, this boy’s arrival had washed away any power or control that Sansa had over herself. This little boy was King in the North now, and his sister was left with practically nothing.

Life was too cruel to her, and the day after that the snows began.


	33. Chapter 33

Sansa was grooming her youngest brother to be king.

At first, she had thought that this meant that she no longer would be forced to marry and breed for her kingdom, but when she found out that this only meant that she could no longer do it on her own terms, she had cried herself to sleep.

So she helped her brother. Rickon was wild as could be. He only liked a handful of people, and all others he refused to talk to or even attacked them if they pressed him too much. His hair was long and tangled, and he would not let anyone touch it.

He wore ratty leather breeches that were horribly stained and disgusting. He protested each time she tried to get him to change. Finally, she asked him what was so important about those breeches.

“I made them myself.” He pulled them out at his knees, smiling proudly.

“And what did you kill to make them? A deer, a pig?” She humored him.

“No, no, this is _manskin_.”

She hadn’t believed him at first, but then Ser Davos had told her that he had rescued Rickon from Skagos. Rickon had been raised by a tribe of cannibals. Sansa lost even more sleep over that.

Rickon only truly listened to Sandor. Perhaps it was his size, or his ferocity, but Rickon did what Sandor told him to do.

“Your sister wants your hair brushed.” He had told the boy once.

“No, I don’t want anyone to touch me!” Rickon had growled like an animal and backed away, but Sandor snatched him up again and forced him down into a chair.

“You’ll do as she says or I’ll make your little knotted head spin.” And he held the wildling boy down while Sansa brushed his hair. When she had finished, he was finally sitting still for her.

“Isn’t that better?” She asked as she ran her hand over his smooth head. He was still filthy. He refused to bathe and wash his teeth. That would be another battle for later.

“I guess.” He crossed his arms, not looking at her.

“May I cut it?”

“No.” He tried to jerk away from Sandor but was held fast.

“Cut his bloody hair.” Sandor rasped, holding him still again while he thrashed. Sansa quickly took the opportunity and sheared as much of the filthy hair off of his head, and then evened it near his scalp.

Rickon cried afterwards, and Sansa felt bad.

She had him entirely new clothes made, and they were ready a moon or so later. She thought she would have to force him to bathe, but she only had to persuade him. She told him that at their evening meal, she would allow him to eat only meat like he so often liked. He did not like vegetables or breads, nor was he fond of milk.

While she bathed him, the servants took away his old clothes never to be seen again. When he got out, she gave him the new clothes.

“Your old ones are being washed.” She lied. He sulked but wore the new ones anyway. After a while, he forgot about his old clothes.

When they sat at their meal that day, Rickon chose to interrogate Sandor about war.

“How many wars have you fought in?” His mouth was half full of food and he was kicking his legs excitedly under the table.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Rickon.” Sansa chided before taking a small bite of her own food.

“Three,” Sandor shrugged. “Four if you count the battle outside of Winterfell with the Boltons, although that would be a small enough war.”

“Four wars! How many men have you killed?”

“I haven’t been counting, but the number is probably more than I can count anyhow.”

Rickon pouted. “I’ve only killed two.”

Sansa choked on her food.

“Two men? You’re only six years old.” Sandor reached over and pinched the boy’s neck. “Don’t lie to me, little wolf.”

Rickon flinched. “I only helped.”

“I thought as much.” His eyes slid over to her. “Are you alright, little bird?”

“Fine.” Sansa replied hoarsely. She took a healthy gulp of her wine to wash the soreness from her throat.

Later that night, when she had put Rickon to bed, Sandor visited her.

“Don’t worry, he’s only a boy. He’s a rabid little wildling too. He only wants to seem strong.”

“He was only a baby the last time I saw him. He’s only a child. He shouldn’t have killed anyone, he…” Sansa shook her head. “He’s been at _Skagos_ , Sandor. He’s worn clothes made from human flesh, he’s eaten people.”

“He is a child, Sansa.” He grasped her shoulder firmly. “He went where he was told, he wore what was provided, and he ate what he was given. He survived.”

Sansa swallowed hard. “Stannis is visiting soon.”

“What about it?”

“He seeks to arrange a marriage for Rickon… and for me.” She wrung her hands. “Before, I could refuse because I was queen, but now Rickon only has to approve. He’s a child, what if they sway him? They only have to offer him sweets and he’ll say anything they want.” She raised her hands to her face, grazing her fingernails across her temples. The pain helped her focus, bring her mind forward. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I don’t know.” Sandor admitted. “Influence him before they do. Say you’ll cut his hair if he agrees to anything. Say you’ll hold him down and spit on his face.”

“It won’t work.” She shook her head. “Rickon is only a child, and winter is here.” Even the heat thrumming through the castle couldn’t take away the biting cold. “I’m his heir. If anything would happen to him, Stannis would want to be sure that he had control over the north. Marriages are powerful alliances.”

“Stannis isn’t stupid. Rickon is a boy, he cannot make such decisions.”

“Stannis put my fate in the hands of a hateful corpse; _of course_ he would give a six year old this kind of power.” She turned to him, desperate. Her heart beat so fast in her chest that she thought it might stop. Panic flooded her. She felt trapped, caged. _I can’t do this. I can’t go through this. No._

“I don’t know, Sansa.” He offered her a comforting hand. “But whatever you decide, whatever you do, I’ll help you if you need me.”

 _Gods, gods._ She took his hand, squeezed it hard and pressed it against her forehead. _There must be some way out of this. Anything. Anything._ She’d kill herself if she had to. Let them call her selfish, call her craven. She’d lie down and spread her legs for every man in the castle. Let them call her a whore. Let them look at her with scorn. She closed her eyes. She didn’t allow the tears to come. Not again. Resolve filled her like solid steel. _I’ll get out of this. I will. Gods be damned, I’ll burn the castle to the ground again if it means my freedom._


	34. Chapter 34

She was uneven, unhinged. She was scaring him.

A fortnight passed. He visited her every night, before she slept. Sometimes she spoke to him, sometimes she fretted silently, and sometimes she mumbled to herself under her breath. Her eyes were bright. She was terrified, dangerously so. She was descending into madness.

He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t stop it. He wished her fears were something he could stab. He wished he could fight and kill her insanity. He could not. Instead, he had to watch.

He feared she did not sleep. She was so thin and pale. Her eyes were dark underneath, so dark that in the shadows they could be mistaken for bruises. She wrung her hands until she formed sores. She often stared out the windows into the endless snow.

He entertained the thought, for the hundredth time, of stealing her away again. He could take her to the Summer Isles, and she could see the birds there so much like herself. She could eat their rich food and fatten up again. She could lie in the sun all day until her skin shown golden. She could smile and laugh. These thoughts tortured him.

She was waiting for him one night when he came to her. She was wearing her night shift and a robe to cover it, and sitting near the window as always. After everything, she was still so beautiful. Her scars were nothing. Her illness was nothing. Even her terrors, her misery…

She turned to him then. Slowly, like a ghost. She was peaceful, almost, but she still had a frightening quality about her.

“I know what I must do.” She said slowly. Her hands were clasped over her lap. She did not wring her hands.

“And what is that?” He was too cautious to be relieved.

“I must marry before Stannis arrives.” Her fingers curled into her robe. “Someone Rickon would approve of, and Stannis couldn’t easily dispose of.”

“What? One of the Manderly’s?”

“No. _You_.”

He stood. Anger boiled up in him for the first time in a long time, but he tried to suppress it. “I am _not_ a pawn in this game.”

She stood too. Her eyes were wild. She was a cornered wolf, rabid and afraid. “You said you would do _anything_ I asked you to. You’re the only one who won’t hurt me. We’ll marry but that will be all. I know a trick to play. I’ve heard of ways that a woman can be rid of her maidenhead without a man. I’ll play my trick while you are in the chambers adjacent to the one we are given. Then, we’ll sleep in the same bed and present a bloody sheet.” She reached forward, grabbing his arm and digging her nails in. “We’ll tell everyone I’m barren. You said you’d protect me. You said you’d keep me safe. You _promised_ , you _vowed_. Don’t you realize that the best way to keep me safe is to call me your wife? No one will touch me then. No one.”

“What if I don’t want to marry you?” The words came out harsher than he intended, but he did not take them back.

“Would you rather marry someone else?”

“Might be I would.” _What a lie. I am such a liar. I am such a fool._

Her eyes flashed and she dug her nails farther into his arm. It hurt. “Then marry me, and go to her in the night. But I’ll not have you shame me. I’ve been shamed too much already. Do as I ask. You _promised_.”

 _I don’t want to do this. I love her, but I don’t want this._ The gods were cursing him. They were giving her to him as his wife but she would never truly be his. She would never smile and laugh again. She would never be the little bird again, only the rabid, feral wolf that she had become.

He sat on the edge of her bed and buried his face in his hands. He had never even entertained the thought of marrying her. Now, it seemed like a nightmare. But he had promised. He would do anything. He had to protect her, even if it meant hurting himself.

He felt the strongest urge he had felt in so long for wine. He could almost taste it on his tongue. He sighed. He would visit the maester and take a dose of sweetsleep. Perhaps it would ward away dreams.

“Fine.” He told her. He stood and left without another word. He did not want to marry her. He wondered why. She would never lie with him, or bear his children, but that did not bother him. She would not be with another man, and he would not be with another woman. They could be together. Why didn’t he want that?

Suddenly, her words were echoing in his head, filling him with misery.

_No one wants a mad wife._

* * *

 

She was giddy with her accomplishment. He had agreed. She would be free. Sandor would be her husband, but he would never hurt her or demand anything of her. _I have control over him, not him over me. He’ll do anything I tell him to, just like he promised._

She breathed hard into her pillow. She would be okay. She would be okay. She could do what she wanted. She could stay at home, in Winterfell, and watch her baby brother grow. She could see him become King and rule. Sandor would have to stay at her side, too, and no one would take him away from her. He would kill anyone who tried.

She did not love him, but that did not matter. She did not have to lie with him nor have his babies. She heard women chatter around the castle. They said that sometimes a woman could insert a small object inside of herself for pleasure, and it felt nearly the same as what a man had. She could use something like that to rid herself of her maidenhead, and no one could annul her marriage.

He didn’t want to marry her, though. He had said so. He wanted to marry someone else. Sansa was confused. He had never seen him show interest in anyone. She assumed he did not want for a wife, and would be glad to have her. When he said he wanted another, a surge of anger pulsed through her. _You’re mine_ dangled off of her lips but she did not say it. That would be impolite, and a cruel thing to say.

Her own thoughts scared her sometimes. They came to her, unbidden and violent. Her hands shook and her breath came fast when she had them. She had to push back her impulses. She felt so strange.

Sometimes thoughts that were not normal came to her as if they were. One time she found herself missing Brienne, and spotted her out in the training yard below. She opened the window and thought to step out, jump down, and land beside her sworn shield. She had the window unlatched and had one foot up on the windowsill before she realized that she was not capable of doing that.

But she would belong to no one soon, and Sandor would belong to her. Stannis would have to be satisfied with that. She was so elated that she cried into her pillow, but they were tears of relief.

It had been so long, _so long_ , since she felt okay. But a weight had been taken off of her chest. She slept well that night, and across the castle Sandor Clegane was not sleeping at all.


	35. Chapter 35

It was a few days after her fifteenth name day that they married. Rickon was excited to see what the wedding ceremony would be like, but quickly lost interest when he realized he would be standing there, silent, for the majority of it.

They married in the Godswood, in front of the heart tree. The tree was a fright to behold, with its sliced open face oozing sap that looked like blood, and nearly smelled like it too. There were cloaks too. Usually, a wedding witnessed by the old gods did not require cloaks, but Sansa wanted them. Her mother had once been a Catelyn Tully, who worshipped the Seven, so she felt the need to have them.

Sandor always thought that if he ever did marry, it would be because someone commanded him to. He could’ve laughed at that now if he didn’t hate the situation so much. He forgot the words he was supposed to say, and stumbled over them awkwardly. Sansa had to mouth the words to him to make him able to continue. Any other day, this would’ve been the greatest in his life.

He kissed her at the end of the ceremony, only once, rather than a few times in the middle like a marriage formed by the Seven. It was barely a kiss, more like a peck you would give a child, but she seemed to at ease afterwards. Her shoulders relaxed and that wild, fevered look had left her eyes. For that alone, he had married her, and for that alone he would never undo it.

Their wedding feast was small, and more like a normal supper. Their marriage was rushed and not attended by many, and Sansa did not want to waste food they might need for Rickon’s own wedding feast. Food was scarce in the winter, and she told him that they must not be wasteful.

Rickon ate only his meat and then crawled around on the floor, hiding under the Stark cloak he had removed from his sister’s shoulders earlier that day.

“Rickon, get off of the floor and finish your meal.” Sansa scolded him.

“I’m a ghost, and ghosts don’t eat.” The boy replied from under the cloak, giving it a little shake.

“There are people starving out there in this winter, you know, but here you are leaving your food to get cold on your plate.”

Rickon pouted, but crawled back up to the table and ate his food with a sour look on his face. The others in attendance ate silently. The onion was there, worrying silently. He had tried to stop them from marrying, but Rickon had commanded him to shut his mouth. Rickon had been pleased that Sandor and Sansa were marrying, and Osha was equally pleased. Brienne was only startled and confused.

Soon came time for them to consummate their marriage. What a jape. There was no bedding ceremony. The wedding was too small, and it would’ve only added more bitter taste to their farce of a marriage. Sansa and Sandor led themselves to the bedchamber. It was the Lord’s bedchamber, having once belonged to Ned Stark himself. There was a door that led into what had been Lady Catelyn’s chamber. Sandor suspected that Lady Catelyn’s bed lay empty most nights, considering how many children she spawned over her lifetime.

But that was where he went. Sansa said she would take care of the matter of her maidenhead herself. That was better for the both of them.

The servants had prepared the bedchamber for Sansa, not for him. There were some lovely flowers in a vase near the bed. They were made of parchment. Perfumes were laid out near a clean washbasin. There was an assortment of brushes and such items for her hair. A fire was burning in the fireplace. There was even a clean night shift laid out on the bed for her.

He took the dress and folded it in half, placing it over the back of a chair, before collapsing over the bed. He suspected she had never touched this bed, never slept in it, but it smelled of her anyway. It was a clean, powdery smell. Pleasant.

The fireplace popped loudly, and he laid there for a moment listening to it crackle. Sansa did not like fire, but she did not fear it like he did. Still, it was winter, and they needed that warmth to live. The weather grew harsher each day, and food was growing scarce. Soon their only food would come from hunted animals. At least Rickon would be happy.

He did not realize it, but soon he was dozing. He did not know how long he slept, but a soft hand shook at his shoulder and he sat up. Sansa was there. She was in her sleeping shift. She must’ve changed into it before she woke him.

“It is done.” She said. “Now we must sleep in the same bed. There are some clothes for sleeping in the other room.” She let go of his shoulder and crossed into the darkness of the larger bedchamber, leaving the door open behind her.

After a moment, he stood and followed her, closing the door behind him. She was standing near the bed, waiting for him. When he entered, she shoved back the furs to climb in and sleep. He saw a small red stain on the sheet underneath. Uneasiness curled inside of him for a moment, and then vanished. She couldn’t have hurt herself. No one knew someone’s body as well as they did their own. She was smart, anyway. She would visit the maester if she had any pain.

He crawled into the bed beside her. It was dark, but the moon was only a few days away from being full. It shined in the window, reflecting and lighting the room well enough. She was lying on her side, facing him, and staring. She had a strange look on her face.

“You’re my husband now.” She whispered, reaching her fingers out to take his hand under the blankets. “How does that feel?”

“I don’t feel any different.” He replied.

“I do. I feel better.”

“Are you happy?” He asked.

“No, but I’m closer than I’ve been in a long time.” She shifted closer to him. She was silent for a moment. “Would you kiss me?”

He started. “Why?”

“I would like you to, that’s all.” She looked away.

“Would that make you happy, if I kissed you?”

She blushed prettily. “Maybe.”

He took his hand away from hers and found the nape of her neck with it. He tugged her forward gently and placed his lips against hers. Sandor knew nothing of kissing. He’d never kissed in his life. He’d fucked whores in King’s Landing, but they’d only laid back and let him use them. He did not want them to touch him. He did not want their lies.

So he kissed his wife. He wished he knew what to do, but she seemed to know better than he. He tried not to be too ashamed. She moved her lips against his slightly, pressing only a bit harder. It was such a sweet kiss. She pulled away from him, red-faced and biting her lip.

“Thank you.” She said, sounding like the girl she used to be.

“Did it make you happy?” His hand was still on the back of her neck. He didn’t feel like removing it just yet.

“No, but… Almost, I think.” He drew his hand back.

“What would make you happy, then?”

She sighed, rolling on to her back. She closed her eyes. She was beautiful. She was _his_ , but at the same time she never would be. “I don’t know.”


	36. Chapter 36

Her sixteenth name day passed, and then her seventeenth.

The war seemed to draw to a close. Cersei Lannister disappeared. Tyrion Lannister reappeared at the side of the Dragon Queen across the sea. Rickon was betrothed to Shireen Baratheon, despite the girl being much older than him. Stannis sat the Iron Throne. The Tyrells still kept court in King’s Landing, waiting.

Stannis was not happy that Sansa married without his say so, but Sandor held no real power and had no men rallied to use against him. Sansa did not lay with her husband. They slept in the same bed sometimes, for warmth and to keep up appearances but he did not touch her. She did not ask him to kiss her again, though she thought back on it many times. They rarely spoke, and after time passed she wondered if they were strangers once again.

Over the years, her mind calmed. She was no longer scrambling for coherent thoughts, for logic. She had nightmares sometimes of Joffrey and his torch even after so long, but when she awoke and Sandor was beside her, she felt okay. She still felt uneasy sometimes, but not near as often.

As Sansa grew from a young maid into a woman, she found herself having strange desires. She was afraid to ask her husband to help her. She did not think he would hurt her, he would never, but she was afraid of what it would mean.

Eventually, she could not contain herself. She had to try something, with someone. She decided it would be best to find someone who would not spread tales of her, and who would not stay around the castle if she did not want them to.

Travellers often visited Winterfell. She sated her curiosity there. Men showed interest in her so long as she kept her body clothed, so she did. She disguised herself as well. She would wear ratty peasant clothes and mess up her hair. They thought of her only as a kitchen girl, not the lady of the castle.

She let the first man only kiss her and touch her a little. She did not let him go farther. The next, she let him slide his hand down into her smallclothes to touch her there between her legs. She let the third draw her skirts up and take her in a supply room in the castle.

The travelers never stayed in Winterfell long. They always left after a few days. When another group of travelers came, she took a liking to the youngest member. He was a year younger than she, and handsome. He was yellow haired and brown eyed. She let him take her in the stables.

She lied beneath him and let him push himself into her. It was a strange feeling, but it was nice. It got nicer each time she let someone do it. He was drunk, though. Eventually the feeling vanished into nothing and she was only waiting for it to be over, but it felt like he was between her legs for hours.

Her mind wandered to Willas. She could’ve married him, long ago. She wondered what it would’ve been like to lay with him. He would’ve been gentle, she knew. He would’ve kissed her the whole time, and probably would’ve showered her with complements about how great it was the entire time.

What would it have been like with her husband? A flutter of excitement rose up in her, but she pushed it back down. The boy above her grunted and pulled out, spilling his seed over her stomach.

“What’s your name?” The boy asked, brushing the hair out of her face so sweetly.

“Meggary.” Sansa replied. He told her his name too, but she did not care to listen or remember.

“I wish I could stay here with you forever.” The boy lay next to her. “You’re so beautiful. You’re probably a lost princess.” He fell asleep sighing stupid confessions of love in her ear.

He and his group left the next day, disappointed that they never caught a glimpse of the Burned Beauty of Winterfell. She drank her moon tea and forgot his face.

She was six and ten at that time, and her curiosity was quelled for a while. She learned to please herself when she wanted it, and no longer risked the touch of travelling men and boys.

Rickon calmed with age. Lady Stoneheart never found Arya, but she got her revenge. After rotting in Winterfell’s dungeon for so long, Ramsey Snow was brought out into the daylight and sentenced to death. Sandor Clegane cut his head from his body, and it was done. Her men piled together some twigs and burned his remains. Lady Stoneheart threw herself into the fire, pleased with her final revenge.

Sansa was pleased enough with her life at Winterfell once the risks to her freedom disappeared. After a year passed in her marriage, women flocked around her offering sympathy and gifts. They gave her medicines and advice, and told her what herbs to boil into a tea to ensure that she quickened with child. She would smile and accept them all, but never use them.

Winter dragged out long and harsh. As her eighteenth name day neared, her people starved and froze. She gave them all the food she was able to spare, but she would not starve her family. They ate as much as they needed to survive and gave up the rest. Her servants were losing their families. Winterfell was filled with sadness and grief.

She could not give her people more food to eat, or more wood to burn. She could not return their dead to them. So she had to do what she could to make them happy, so she asked a few of her servants what she could do.

Sandor seemed surprised when she stayed up to speak with him.

“It looks like my wife remembers that she has a husband.” He rasped, pulling off his boots.

“I never forgot.” She examined her fingernails. “Winter has been harsh. The townsfolk are suffering.”

“You’re doing all you can for them.”

“There is something more I can do, if only to provide some cheerfulness to their lives.”

“And what would that be?” He grimaced. “A tourney?”

“No.” She looked up at him. “A baby.”

She heard him inhale sharply. “You’ve told everyone that you’re barren. Wouldn’t it be strange if you came up with child now?”

“I have a drawer full of items that women have given me to help produce a child. I’ll say they finally seemed to work.”

He stared at her. “Do you even know what we’d have to do to make a babe?”

“Yes.” She replied, exasperated. “I’m not a child anymore.”

“So you know what you’re asking.”

“Yes.” She tilted her chin up. “I do.” She pulled her shift from her body. “We will do this each night until we produce a child.”

He hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” She removed her smallclothes and lay naked underneath the furs. She was anxious, but excited. He turned and faced away from her, rubbing his hand over his face, before climbing into the bed with her wearing only his breeches.

“I have something we could use to… make it easier. One of the ladies in town gave it to me.” She felt her face heat up. “I would like for you to just touch me, though.”

She watched his throat move as he swallowed. “Show me how, then.” She turned around so that her back was pressed tightly to his chest. She took his hands and wrapped them around her, then guided them to her skin. She placed his hands on her belly first, rubbing lightly, and up to her ribs.

His hands weren’t soft, but she liked the sensation of it. She brought them up to cup the underside of her breasts and he hissed in a breath.

“Are you alright?” She asked.

“Yes. Are you?” She was. He ran his thumbs over them, pressing gently. It felt nice. She grunted softly when his fingers trailed over her nipples. She took his hands and guided them back down to her stomach.

“Here,” She guided them down between her legs. She took his fingers and ran them along the folds there. His forehead pressed against her shoulder, and she felt her face heat and excitement build in her stomach. He touched her carefully as her hands guided him.

“Like this?” He ran his fingers over her again and again before pressing one inside of her. She sighed at the sensation.

“Yes.”

He touched her like she showed him for a while. She relaxed in his arms, her head rolling back against him. Finally, she grew impatient. She pulled his hands away and turned herself around, fumbling at his breeches until they opened.

“Would you like for it to feel good, or to be over quickly?” He pulled her leg up over his hip and she felt his erection against her thigh.

“I want it to feel good.” She breathed, and kissed him. He froze and she ran her tongue over his lips. He opened his mouth with a quiet groan and she brushed his tongue against his. He pulled back with a huff and then reached down and ran his fingers between her legs again.

“Where did you learn to kiss like that?”

“I’ll tell you after.” She pressed her lips against the side of his throat and he nudged himself inside of her almost painfully slow. He was trying not to hurt her. She sucked on the side of his neck in appreciation, and he grunted, pushing a bit harder into her. “Oh, that feels nice.”

He pulled out of her again, and pushed back in. She closed her eyes tight. The sensation was different from being with men before. She had only gotten that feeling from touching herself. She didn’t know it could be the same.

He shifted himself, grabbing her hips with his hands and pulling her forward against him. Soon, she was squirming against him.

“You’ll need to stop that or this will go faster than you wanted.” He ground out, trying to hold her still.

“I don’t care.” She pressed her face into the crook of his neck. “Please, _please_.” He slowed down, trying to push into her harder and deeper. She wormed her hand between them, feeling curiously at where they joined before going up a bit to rub at that strange bump she found that liked being touched so much. Suddenly all thoughts were forced from her head and she trembled against him, sighing loudly and digging her nails into his back.

“Fuck,” He mumbled, squeezing her hips a bit and then stilling inside of her. She was sweating, she noticed. He was too. It was cold against her skin. She kept her face at his shoulder, comforted by the smell and feel of him.

The next night was the same, and the next and the rest. She enjoyed her time with him. He wasn’t a stranger. It was different, like she thought it would be, but nothing for her to fear. She didn’t have to fear him.

A fortnight passed, and another, and another. She missed her moon blood but she did not tell him immediately. A few nights later, she curled against his chest. He always acted so strangely afterwards. That, she thought, would be the best time to tell him.

“I’ve quickened.” She said to him, and looked up to see him staring. Her mouth slowly formed a smile.

“I love you, little bird.” He said, and she gaped at him.

“How… How long?” She hadn’t done anything special lately to make him love her. Just because they were married for true now did not mean she would win his love, but maybe it did.

“Since Highgarden, I suppose.”

“Since _Highgarden_?” Tears blurred her eyes. “Why so long? You never said anything.”

“No, I never did.”

“Why now?”

“Because you’ve smiled. Gods, do you know how _long_ it’s been since you’ve smiled?” He shook his head. “Tell me you’re finally happy. I don’t care why.”

“Being a mother will make me happy. Making the townsfolk happy will make me happy. Being loved makes me happy, and loving back makes me happy.”

“Good,” He said. He leaned down, pressing the ruined side of his face to her own burned chest. “After everything, you deserve to be happy.”

Later that year, she birthed a son. He was fat and strong and wailed loud enough for the whole castle to hear. He grew to be as strong as his father, but as gentle as his mother. He was a handsome boy. He was born in the dead of winter. He was a Stark, like his mother, and of the north.

He was born of a burned father, and a burned mother, but he was ice himself. Snow filled his veins. His blood ran cold.

 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read the story, and commented, and gave kudos. I wanted this story to have a good ending, despite all the sad things in it. I hope you liked it.


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